It has been a long and perfect late summer into fall. Each day bright, the sunshine relentless. Over the city haze like a bruise settles among the towers and spires. Sunrises are dust glorious, sunsets lingering. No rain to turn our faces up to. The wind listless and sullen by turns. Each day a perfect blue an uneasy reminder that all is not well, that something approaches, we see the shape of the shadow and shiver for the whispers and echoes, although the chill has yet to reach us. What will we recall of these days, later, after, in the long season where all this blue is paid for?