By the end of the summer some people were still wearing their masks, but a callousness had grown throughout the city. To me it felt cursed, like the spectral spider exhibition I would see underground in Tasmania, after I had fled. And there was fleeing, the sense of nothing being permanent. Quicksand. The city had changed of course; there were far fewer people around and with coupled with my ever lessened desire to go walking around the city centre in its desultory form, every day had become Sunday. I ended my relationship about this time too, just after returning from the Alps and seeing Sebastian. And that was about the time the summer gave way.
