it’s an odd assortment of hanging clothes, the not quite dry smell wafting up up and away even with the window open. thickening the air, thickening the clouds, thickening the sun, the days are heavy when you breath them in. living under water in the open air while jumping over puddles. three blades spinning, standing below where the air moves endlessly around and around. someone opens a window to find a draft only to let in a tide of the heat that had been held back tenaciously to this point.
the dust settles. it hides away in corners waiting to spring back into position after it is swept up moments before.
metal pots for water. boiled not shaken. shaken not stirred.
days that quicken and slow with no sense of time at all, passed away on couches or beneath the heat of the sun.
walk up steps to seek the sort of refuge that only a rooftop can give.
wooden chairs creak, and the sun sets.

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