Seems as if hardly any time has passed since I wrote that note about my summers, at the very beginning of this summer, on June 6. I remember that evening. It was a slow evening. I had time to think, and write. I had time to do all the things I like to do. For example, to drink a coffee completely from the first sip to the last. I felt I still had time. Having time meant that I had myself. I needed time in order to keep company with myself.

There will be time, there will be time

Soon after that last entry, time sped up. I lost my time with myself. I lost myself. I was still me in the same body with the same head and hands and feet. But everything was put to different use, to the various chores that a summer here demands. And there was so much idle chatter - about the weather, about the tourist season, about the menu, about soccer, about trivial things that have all been forgotten. Words that were spoken for the sake of passing time. Not keeping it, not holding onto it. Everyone around was talking and talking so that time would pass, while I could not wait for the time that when their mouths would be silenced.

There will be time to murder and create 

That time has come. The tourist season has come to an abrupt halt. The restaurant is empty. There is silence.

Time for you and time for me,
And time yet for a hundred indecisions,
And for a hundred visions and revisions,

I made a cup of Turkish coffee yesterday morning, knowing that I would drink it all without interruption. This is not the quick summer frappe, the instant shaken coffee that can be drunk standing in the Greek summer heat. This is the slow brewed coffee that takes time, needs time to be made, time to be drunk, to be sipped slowly. Time is slowing down. And I am coming back.