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The first week of August hangs at the very top of the summer, the top of the live-long year, like the highest seat of a Ferris wheel when it pauses in its turning. The weeks that come before are only a climb from balmy spring, and those that follow a drop to the chill of autumn, but the first week of August is motionless, and hot. It is curiously silent, too, with blank white dawns and glaring noons, and sunsets smeared with too much color. Often at night there is lightning, but it quivers all alone. There is no thunder, no relieving rain. These are strange and breathless days, the dog days, when people are led to do things they are sure to be sorry for after.[1]

The last week of work before my summer vacation. So here’s just a little bit of summer full of foreshadowing to get me in the mood. I can’t wait; relaxing and reading. Hell, I might even get some of my own writing done – it’s been quite a while. God, that does sound like the diary of a working stiff. It’s sad when the only time writing gets done is on vacation. I guess it’s been hectic, though that’s not really an excuse, is it?

For now, back to work.


[1] Natalie Babbitt, Tuck Everlasting (1975; New York, 2010), 3.