Let me take this opportunity to say

that the tightening in my chest only reminds me of those autumn months. The ones coming, the ones you don't quite know in New York. I remember coming home from college for the first time two autumns ago. Caroline and I sat smoking cigarettes on the beach, my orange moccasins, and what we felt was something short of invincible. But maybe this is the way I chose to remember it.

For the first time this week I read an essay of Joan Didion's: "On Keeping a Notebook" in which she admits to the same theory of fallacy to which I have been subscribing for years. I write about the lake house in its oneiric capacities--the sweet wild spearmint, washing in the lake--yet fail to mention that I have been there but twice, that by night I am afraid of the overwhelming hush.

But let Didion say it. It only appears long and reads like your thoughts.

http://www.ranablog.com/pdfs/didion.pdf