This is a fragile mood. Everything vaguely erotic. The sultry weight of summer, the veiling diffusion, the dense dark foliage; the lubricious tang of fall, of winter, that sharpness whose origins can’t be found. And youth is the possibility of denuding such mystery, of finding some bare nave inside, beyond the austerity, beyond the décor. Porch lights and candles in the window, azalea bushes and rose beds. Nights of youth earn their romance through such an opaque sense of the possible. We are so much fluidity, so much unsettled theories of what might become. And slowly that fervent motion ossifies, yields to static. What lingers ahead of adolescence - a chance encounter, a searing talk abrading our souls to the raw, that punch drunk alcove of late night when the world becomes improbably singular and lucent - lapses, quietly, into a memory of something unspeakable, impossible to translate in a tangible universe. We pass into the firmness of responsibility. Night falls, and we remember.