Days and nights twist around themselves; I sleep deliciously late in the mornings and my mind races at night. The season's first heat wave heaves itself onto the streets, we are all cold showers on the hour, late night at backyard bars in Brooklyn, long brunches in air conditioned spaces: everything smells like summer.
I go to sleep too late on Sunday, the weekend a revelry in my pocket, a reminder of times before the Great Depression. Maraschino cherries, plans of Mexico, instructions on how to have a big birthday, convertible top down with the Manhattan skyline straight ahead; the shoebox sags under the weight of the weather.
The AC unit in the little bedroom on 6th street attempts a hero's journey.
You're starting to think maybe you could, too.
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