It’s already August. And there’s subtle but distinct difference in the air. My gosh I love humidity, oh how it quenches. It’s still damp as mist but there’s a softness to August and a ripeness I have always loved. What does August mean to you?
July blooms a frolic of colour;
August is muted, harvested, held.
Questions, questions, questions. We will always be plummeted by questions. They come from all angles, inside and out.
Here are some questions from the archive of my cloud. They are questions that come when there is no thought space left, when I haven’t time to say goodbye, let alone say hello to, a future of any kind.
Is my breath soft
Where am I, here?al
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