Summertime's Madness

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Aloe vera. Cappuccino. Fortune. One was to numb away the fears and the others to suffocate it. Suffocate it to a point of no recognition, until we are all back to numbing it all back down. But the fears are here to stay, no matter the course, no matter the destination. So many calls to diversify, some to compartmentalise, and many endeavour to rise above. The consequences irregardless are a moot point. We are at a precipice of a dynamic stagnation, constantly moving to and fro unceasingly towards the same fucking stupid shitpiece. The more things change, the more things remain the same, or so it goes. Sriracha. Honey. Sunflower. Ani went home with a noticeably more calm demeanour, for two days in a row now, no frills. It would have been surprising had it not been for the most obvious of sobriquets. Lydia, she says, named after her grandmother, as tears well up in her droopy and tired eyes. I frown in contempt at the helplessness of it all. There is no need to contest it, I reckon, only that we just have to sully our intuitions and meet halfway eventually. Mine remains unchanged. Gold. Silver. It will always be Ainhoa.

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