I am itching and restless, catapulted by a sudden spell of rain and nostalgia through the nose. My sense memory (De ja vu? Natsukashii?) sits on a familiar beach on a still, humid afternoon, looking for nothing in particular. And yet my feet take me underground, into hibernation against my will and against the draw of the whimsical feeling in the air; the windy, wide-eyed confusion of the week.
The entire city hibernates against its own will (perhaps it happens every year? Just imagine!), and the city is angry about this. The city also tries to make it romantic.
Yet there really is nothing romantic about sensing that the walls are coming closer together each day (was that lamp always so close to the couch?).
The snow is just a decoy.
I guess there was also nothing too romantic about feeling the August afternoon sun stretch endlessly into a happy, stupefied oblivion.
Come to think of it, yes there was.