It comes over you like a crashing wave, riding on tidal currents and tracksuit mornings stirred with coffee pot bitterness. It’s an odd sense of satisfaction that is drizzled in discursive fragility, twirls among afternoon vicissitudes and the graying leaves of October.

But not really. It’s contentment without fulfillment, saturation without wholeness, like some kind of achromatic vacuum is you in. It’s a vortex with no way out, dollhouse domesticity with no plastic door exits. It’s the bone-aching chill of a rising breeze, sails the edge of a hidden horizon ready to dawn upon the universe.

It’s what it means to walk one-sixth of the way home, then stop because you’re lost and you don’t know what direction to latch onto. It’s running in a perfect unbroken circle, because cycles can’t be broken.

It’s finding yourself before a familiar door, a passcode you know better than your own. It’s deciding to ring the doorbell instead, and hoping, hoping for something to happen.

It’s knowing that no one’s inside, the resident's schedule is stuffed with album recording sessions and dinner dates with friends. It’s knowing nothing will happen.

But it’s hoping anyway.