You'll probably see that subject line again.

I felt today the first flirtatious kiss of winter upon my nape. A chill, in the air; in the house. The temperature in the dining room was 18C this morning. I expect and prepare for a freshening outside as the days shorten even while they're still just longer than the nights. This is Canada after all. But inside, and first half September, it's not only unwelcome-it's always unwelcome-it's unexpected. Measures were taken; long sleeves adorned, fleece slippers retrieved from the lurking places of cats.

But I write today to complain of hunger. The hunger of "winter is coming." The furnace in the core of my self that banked for summer's heat is now remembering what it is to stoke and to demand fuel. The hunger that isn't slaked by a contented belly so much as by an inability to eat any more. The hunger that makes my jaws clench at nothing and my teeth ache to rend fatty flesh. And cheap chocolate. (That last bit may be triggering.) 

The hunger of eat, or die.