It’s shocking how quickly Summer in Brighton dies. Autumn blows in a cold breeze and the only sound on the beach is the waves hitting the stones and receded over them with a shuuuuuush like the sea calming down a scared dog 

The glamour of a Brighton Summer town is the old meaning of the word, a fey dreaming, a tilt-o-whirl of lights, glitter, dancing, music playing from everywhere, sticky ice cream, the glare of the sun strobing with the short nights as the whole town cycles fast and faster through the days. 

Fairy magic, a shared dream of the seaside mixing with the trips of countless nights spent on the dancefloor. Even residents know not to fight it, they step on the ride in May, and step off in September barely dizzy.

September is for locals, the ghost of the August heat exorcised by the cold wind. The sky is a dramatic blue and white tableau of clouds not yet the dull wall of winter grey.

I’m in the Crows Nest enjoying Tea and some sort of Samba Jazz. I’m watching groups of people shed their clothes on the beach and wash the last of the Summer’s illusions of their sun marked skin. The groups form rough circles heads above the gentle waves, unconsciously performing rituals of welcome to the season, and pledges of connection to the coast, the sea, and each other.

Wind occasionally whips through the window I’m next to, like the beginning jabs of a fight, feeling me out for the coming winter. This year I’m ready though, home turf advantage.

Not this year mother fucker, not yet.

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