Apollo’s rage yet scars the world. Thousands suffer, wilt and die, scorched stalks in a dying wheat field, and yet I know he’s not the one to blame.

Electric wind (poorly) mimics Persephone’s breath over my skin. Rest is recalcitrant.

I’d normally dance with Dionysus — beyond the singular nightly taste — but that tempts the Fates in these melting days.

Damp suffocation, restless stickiness, disturbed dreams, fog, fog and fog.

May the thunderstorm convention assemble soon.


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