Fingers clasp and teenage misidentities collapse into an annual disguise.

Now that it's July, we'll sleep out in the garden. And if it rains, we'll just sink into the mud, where it is quiet and much cooler than the house is. And there's no clocks or phones to wake us up because I have learned nothing is as pressing, as the one who's pressing would like you to believe. And I'm content to walk a little slower, because there's nowhere that I really need to be. And I find that life's easier, when it's just a blur with no details to confuse who or what or where I was. So when the ending comes, the full regret will seem obscure.