Status Updates From Summer

The briefest and slipperiest of the seasons, the one that won't be held to account - because summer won't be held at all, except in bits, fragments, moments, flashes of memory of so-called or imagined perfect summers, summers that never existed.

Sometimes he hears the hooves of the horses on the roads of the cities he grew up in on the road outside this window.
That's not horses, they tell him here in his neighbour's house. That's people from the Airbnb studio along the road. It's the wheels of their suitcases going over the cracks in the pavement.

Started with summer this time