So this is the real summer in this city. There is not the solitude that allows for the solitude. That allows for introspection every night. There's the crazy summerness of the Southern existence, like Carson McCullers, Flannery O'Conner, and other crazy heat-stricken ladies with various talents.
I have spent the night praying to clothing and the lack of and the way that clothing makes certain things and can ruin others. This is the nature of the city. Nothing is laid bare, nothing is truthful on the surface. Everything takes an extra level of interpretation.
In Summer, in this place, things turn rotten. Corpses rise from the depths of bodies of water and surface and create a narrative that will change this city a little for a few moments.
Desire overcomes us boys in the city at this time of the year, and we know not where to aim our compasses. There's nothing that pulls completely. There's just the Summer. There's just the crazy lumpy ladies. There's just desire. And it burns hotter than summer. It burns hotter than expectation. It gets under your skin and we'll take your mind away from all that you need to get done in this pre-Independence Day heat.
Play a Sousa tune and light a Roman candle. Tonight is lonely and secure and will come to be a good memory for me if I allow myself to wait.
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