Weirdness in August. Illness. Convalescence. Dreams. Words like premonitory come to mind. Men say things they shouldn’t. Friends return from abroad exasperated. A painfully slow novel about a proofreader descending into alcoholism. The gates of hell opening for the hungry ghosts to seek out food from the living. Me learning my great-great-grandfather was the conductor of an orchestra. Perhaps it means something although I can’t think what. But there has been writing and laughter and a sense of purpose. Many voicenotes. Some phone calls. A spell of brain fog. Lightness in August. The peak. The crescendo. The height of summer.
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