It is that time of the day at that time of the year.
It brings on dreams of assignments that followed you around and menthol cigarettes you hid under your bed; of afternoon feeds and your baby asleep on your chest; of the CD you played on the road trip you couldn’t afford but will never regret; of the one unrequited love that haunts you still; or of the two hangovers that really were worth it for the night before.
And then you dream of all the things you could still get done. Before tea, before bed, before life ends. But because it is that time of the day and that time of the year, it won’t really matter if you don’t.