luglio

Summer smells like concrete and sea salt again, even tho the asphalt underfoot has already cooled down. A heart that seems to be cast from cement suddenly awakens from a familiar scent, and the entire rational world crumbles. In the reflection of the shop window, a message breathed onto the fogged glass, like a childish folly that still warms you. Love here isn't about grand gestures, but about waiting in line for a concert without a ticket, about pointless circles looking for parking, and about that feeling when another person's eyes shine brighter than any amusement park. The music sounds as if August has decided not to leave, but has simply quieted down for a moment so that we can have time to forget how happiness ends.