How the days tumble ahead of themselves, May racing to the end of its short life, a brilliant flame extinguished too soon, you already long for it though it is still here. What can you make of your own wild tendrils before they crumple? The ideas are staggering and frail all at once. It is light out so late in the evenings, now, this is the reward for not dying, this is the treasure you reap when you do not go down with the Kraken. It seems impossible to forget yet in the midst of things, how the memory washes away with the tide.
All you need to do is savor it,
you know.
All you need to do is
be here now,
to honor the summer
you've been given.
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