I long for the quiet of winter. The falling leaves of September. Layers. Jackets and scarves and leather gloves. Falling asleep to the sound of an air conditioner has rattled my brain for the better part of two months. Rattling my thoughts until they fall out my ears. I long for the quiet. For the rain. To hear it outside of my window, tapping on the sidewalks, washing Chinatown into the gutters. The spit, the mildewed cabbage, the Little Italy garbage. The early evenings. Darkness descending on the city and eventually causing mild depression. The heat depresses, too. It wraps tightly around the city like a blanket in a dry sauna, unwelcome and immovable. We gasp for breath through the soupy ether, inhaling nothing more but hot air.