Fortnight.

Two weeks ago, I wrote

. . .

It’s true, unquestionably now. The last important people haven’t arrived but they’re coming in soon, and my bookshelves and drawers aren’t full but I’ve spent more nights here than there this week anyway.

This summer, 2013, is gone, and we’re slipping into the school year. Four weeks from now, we’ll be indignant: behind on work, skipping events to write overdue papers, underslept and underfed and recognizing the grime on sinks and floors.

. . .

We’re getting there now, but it has a glory.