>The air is wet. It’s home made whipped cream: heavy and just sweet enough to taste it. It rained last night. The roads aren’t slick, but everything is darker than normal. The sky is a white-noise grey. No one out. The 1.2 kilometer path around the man-made lake is an unnatural empty. I’d run there at one AM, being passed by adjuma, passing lazy couples in no rush to return to their lives. The trees are bare, but the yellow leaves carpet the ground, thickly layered on top of one another, like when you drop a file of paper. With the trees, the sky, the street, and the lack of sun, the cold air hitting my face and creeping under the seam between my gloves and my sweatshirt, with my legs stretching not quite long enough with each revolution of the wheels on my bike, with the grey, dismal sense of endless subdued colors, I think: Maybe this could be home.