This is the part where you say something about the fading summer. This is the part where you say something about the last warm rays of orange sunshine slipping out the side door and through the buildings of your version of the American city. And this is where you build the metaphor, something rooted in the changing of seasons and the passing of time, a lazy tautological conjecture about, well, moving on. To be sure it is something wistful, and we will look at each other in earnest fashion and in the eyes. We mean it, you know, even if the message rings a shade predictable. Near the end of a season of dilating days (thanks, Chabon) we aren't left with heaps of wisdom, just some long, great afternoons, now getting short and shorter in time.
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