A pumpkin spice candle burns next to my desk. Cold autumn rains wash away the last of the yellow leaves, drum drumming on the roof as background music to my writing. The cat has resumed her sphinx position on the arm of the couch. It is as close as I let her get to the scattered notes on my desk. (In truth, she would be satisfied with nothing less than sprawling out across the keyboard.) The dishes sit dirty on the counter, but I am focused on this screen, imagining a world half a lifetime away, typing words which bring passions and pain out of the past and into my consideration.