The sticky sweet of August is one of remembrance. August, with the open windows and no air blowing through, the envelope of suffocation caressing every inch of breath as a side effect.
Touching the drips of regret across salty skin in those moments becomes an obsession.
I feel time slipping away like an agitated lover. You would think this would bring a sense of urgency to my life. Instead, it is a paralyzing and a brutal end to it. Instead of wanting people close, I push further into this mental island of isolation. The quiet just seems to bring a hot sweat of emotion to this self-indulgent quarantine.
Work on your book.
Moisturize your elbows and knees with body butter.
Get out of bed.
Get out of bed.
It's all slipping away, Renee.
