Ninety degrees at sunset. Summer's blast furnace is here again, thank God and goddammit. Hot as balls outside, and I am instantly blanketed in a thin sheen of sweat. Bliss.
I always feel most alive when I'm this close to hell's climate. The cold of winter is clean but it saps. It settles deep and makes me ache. The heat is messy, chaotic. Anything can happen when it's hot outside.
The lycoris are in bloom. People call them surprise lilies because they screw with convention. They throw leaves in spring, disappear in June — and suddenly erupt in July, sending stems of fragrant flowers to stand watch over the yellowing foliage of the bleeding hearts. Chaos is startling and fragrant and pink.
Even when I shut my lids, the color stays, swirling alongside red in the oversaturated world of dreams. Another reason I savor the heat: dreams from a percolating brain. Vivid as the lycoris, the dreams pour off me, mental night sweats that exhaust and exhilarate. It's here where nothing has changed and chaos is king.
Much as I'd like to there is no way to stay here. There is plenty of delicious disorder in the wide-awake world, and on this side the surprise lilies are real and fill the air with sweetness.