It's hotter than it should be.
I'm probably higher than I should be too.
The flies have moved in.
The trees in the distance seem like a stuttering stream.
No, not stuttering,
No, shimmering.
White noise,
White water in the breeze.
Matthew is playing the piano in the oldest part of the house,
and outside the shade is slowly working it's way over the hydrangeas.
I guess we're going surfing, Matthew and I.
How lovely. I've never surfed in Europe before.
It's different here.
There once was a man not unlike every other man,
And just like every other man, he was different.
I wonder what he thinks about.
I wonder if I'm just writing for show now.
