I write about the city

Smoldering heat one early morning. You could feel it touching your skin burning it easily like paper. There’s no way to cool yourself but to think of mirages of beaches, of rain, of ice; to quench your thirst for life in a city full of busy streets, busy minds, busy people, busy hearts. I envy the skies, the stagnant air, the dried leaf that drifts above the street, the train, and the long road way back home.