There's something about the end of summer. Just when it's starting to cool off, so the air is still pleasant but leaves space for breath. It's dusk, and everything is calm. There are cicadas and frogs and grasshoppers making a perfect cacophony, and the rushing of cars in the distance and the whistling of fishing lines and the splashing of fish and above it all the noise of human conversation but somehow it is still silent. None of it means anything at all. Absolutely nothing, and yet somehow everything, is worth attention. The dark shimmering of the lake, the lazy blue-grey of the dusk sky, the black outlines of houses, the subtle orange of lights all faded into a perfect portrait. This is when I can hear myself. This is when my inner consciousness comes alive in intricate words forming long winding sentences of dark and light and hopeless romanticisms. This is where one can find themselves. This is serenity.