Hot hot hot. The heat steams the brain in your little skull. Its enough to make one go insane. But, once the heat subsides, and stars peak through the sheer veil of dusk, the night makes me forget the brutality of the light.
There is a magic here. Its a little magic...and it is fleeting...but it does exist. Laying in the river and listening to the water babble soothes the soul. The riverbed is fractured like wrinkles on old flesh.
My grandfather is an old mountain. A mountain that walks, spits, sings and drinks wine. Sometimes when I look at him, I think that I too might be able to live forever. I like to think that he has somehow beat the system. In some way, he has.