There are certain things that can not be rushed: the yellowing of a leaf on a tree, the aging of whiskey in a cask - cab drivers. I flip each page in this book, waiting to be grabbed, to be brought into the author's world. Page ten comes and I'm still not certain about whom I'm supposed to care. Approaching page twenty, I'm made uncomfortable by the awkward dialogue. I reach page fifty and I still feel like I'm just reading a book. But, I'm patient - I can wait. There are certain things that can not be rushed: the suspension of reality. I guess.
From another room, the radio tells me it's a cruel, cruel summer. Made listless by the heat, a wandering, lazy mind, aimless and detached - a perfect state for reading, a lot can be forgiven. But writing? Better to be certain and connected. Two qualities which my melting mind currently lacks.
Summer heat-
a bead of sweat
runs down my neck.
Summer heat-
thought arrested,
I'll read instead.
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