We went for a longish walk today. When the sun is prepared to set as late as it does here, the days seem languidly longer, and pour over evenings, and night seems like a crumbling cookie. Over before you know it.
And you wake up in the morning, with the faint memory of the cookie, still hungry, yawning, yanking your hand and hoping for some more crumbs of sleep.
But stumbling open an almost beautiful painting that seemed full of light and marble reflections, we stopped outside an art gallery. Despite the chill of this strange ill-named summer, and for all the cold trembling behind your ears, the assuring light of perhaps an Italian square fills you with sun, and drenches the palms in the imaginary sweat of summer.