(For a friend)
Every year my distant memory reminds me that I should wear the summer like a wedding dress, made of blue-colored strings played in variations of C Major. And so by July I collect the summer sun in a basket full of strings, and let summer happen. And you should too, despite a desire of being held captive by yesterdays spring, and being pulled by autumn into your tomorrow. A memory needs space to grow, so that you can be reminded to wear your today, to listen to the symphony it drapes over and under your skin. Let the summer chords settle in your pores. Let the settling happen, while you wear this celebration, of you.