Another summer crawls towards its end. The rising moon sighs, its old silver bones creak and pop, splinter off into dying stars. Crickets tune for funeral dirges. Fireflies flash SOSs that drunk teenagers cruising the streets mistake for lights from faraway raves. The echoed hum of passing carnival trucks sounds like geriatric whales slowly sonaring towards distant shores. The rest of us sit at home, mark still another day off the calendar. We recall a time when we couldn’t remember, let alone pronounce the months of the year. And how hurt we feel now as the years slip by, barely giving us the time of day.