June

(May contain platitudes, pits and fragments of lassitude)

June's here and now half over. Every year I feel more like that alcoholic dude from John Cheever's story. It's not that I spend a lot of time drinking (which is good) or swimming (which is not so good), but rather that, like Neddy Merrill, I'm in a really trite spot. Time's a vehicle with disorienting speed, even moreso because some half-wit (who?) plastered the side windows & mirrors with poorly-lit and spliced fragments of memory.

Besides being fleeting, June's preposterously lush (and would be even without all those weddings and graduations and their detonating perfumes). My mind's not right, though unlike Neddy I can at least understand how fast it's all happening.