Everybody was too hot to be passionate about anything at all.
LACK OF TIME IS A CONVENIENCE BY TONI ST JOHN 34THPARALLEL MAGAZINE ISSUE 73
In the summer there was nothing to do but move slowly and sit under sprinklers. Nobody made music in the summer and the poetry was unoriginal. The days were longer and somehow felt useless under the boot of a heavy sun. Sometimes we broke into coffee shop garden patios after hours to read Bukowski or sketch abstract figures for our poems. Literature made us resent our own time, as transients from a Golden Age that could only be revisited through the prose of an honest writer. Often a dead writer.