This has been July. For all sorts of reasons. It's the view from a cafe I go to with a friend after pilates. It reminds me of holidays - don't ask why - of all I can't put right at the moment, of memoir and WG Sebald, don't ask why, and the Jan Morris I'm reading right now, Hav, a fictional place past its prime. It has such potential but no apparently easy entry or exit. It could be a dream but it's almost too logical. It could be a nightmare but it's not quite scary enough.
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