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.