But be doers of the word, and not hearers only, deceiving yourselves.
Everything is so quiet in the summer. No hurrying to catch the shuttle, no smiling at strangers I see every day, no waving at the nameless WPI employee who hauls trash cans in a red pickup truck. No long hours at Clark alone, wanting only to have a place to belong, to be alone. Far from desiring to escape people, I find that with a return to Seattle comes an increased isolation—if that’s possible. Listen; you can hear Ian breathing as he sleeps, curled up with one arm outstretched, worried about nothing in the world.