The summer has a lot of phones that ring without that nobody heard, doors swollen by humidity, with people sleeping all day, sleeping sun, heat and sun all day dream of having recently completed food and that there is no hurry any more, to extend the hours long nap dirty. I do not know if I like the summer. Sometimes there are parties until late at a house in the woods and candles or torches and music and awareness of the sea, but so far, awareness of the sea. There are terraces filled with beautiful bartenders in Europe and recognizing your language in the focus and tell you when you go to you, a compliment and thank tested. I do not know what to think of summer, is a joy without form, sometimes the disappointment or the feeling that something is over or that everything is over or that there are things coming to an end somewhere in the world. They give you empty sadness newspapers, and more sadness than ever tragedies every day. Seem more larger, sadder, more tragedies in the summer. And you feel as if we expected all of the final fire, heat or final, anything outright and forever but in reality it will not last more than a summer lasts. Because at the bottom to the joy, the holidays, the terraces (no, terraces, is a lie, the heart of Europe you calm and there is the only place where the summer promises exactly what he gives and rain is expected and ten-minute storms that paralyze the train for two days and then it gets dark so late and the moon looks bigger and I like to think that is because it is closer), basically the southern summer, you mean, all that always keeps Toll taste similar and no one answers, or no battery clock next to an empty bed. The beaches, entertainment, reunions. Do not know exactly why but there's something there that makes you depressed, and depressed when you were four years and understand that children also die oxidized visiting a cemetery in the north. Remember the difference between these tombs and graves I had seen you. Remember the child's photo and sun worn fingers have little difference in years between the first and second digit. Remember the brief dash separating the two dates. Remember much of that northern summer. Do not know if it was the first summer sad or more sad because you know summer anything else that you lived in a house with fleas and biting you wrists at night and close your eyes if you understood that children also die and that I was terrified and had to walk down the aisle of an old house, playing with the clapping rough walls, anxiously looking for the parents' bed.
