July didn’t announce itself but instead crept up quietly at the end of a sun-filled string of days, and perhaps I’m simply imagining that the light is leaving the sky earlier than before—it might be the cloud cover and the lack of moon, I say to you as we turn our paperback pages, hardback pages, as the streetlamps flicker on outside. It rains in the cities, it rains in the countrysides, and the news headlines continue to mash me up like those potatoes we ate the other week.
July has, indeed, crept up without announcing itself. Thank you for writing. I wish you the waking equivalent of sweet dreams as the summer walks on.