Summer’s half over.
The air is like lemonaid – warm and thick and bright – and it’s such a distraction. I find a great necessity to do, to get my hands in the earth or in dough or something; yet, at the same time, the warmth is so inviting…These are hammock afternoons, these are poetry and summer novel days.
I feel like such a hypocrite writing this.
I’m going to leave, going to live a little bit.
So should you.