Hello, Old Friend

I remember this feeling, these smells, but they creep over me with a fresh joy: the cool, corrupted scent of leaves and earth, the starched crispness of the air, like a glass of ice tea after the long, langurous day that was the summer.

I remember this feeling, and it binds me to itself and all of its memories: the eyes sneaking downward to close, the limbs dull and spent, the mind wandering, staggering down blind alleys of thought, the sleep that is never quite as much as I would have liked -- or needed, the exhaustion that is somehow sweet and thrilling.

What can I say to it, but "Hello, old friend"?