Summer Never Comes

I'm growing weary.

There's too much. There's a man yelling at me, "Hey princess! Merry Christmas!" He's wearing a Santa hat and little else. It's the end of March.

There's a dead cat on the neighbour's front stoop in the morning. It hasn't died of natural causes, and a grey wifebeater covers its lifeless face.

There's internships and jobs and paycheques and beer and billboards.

There are too many words, and when there is finally silence, the clock ticks much too loudly and the sirens are deafening.

I want to be someplace completely absent of concrete, even if it's just for a few moments.

(How long is one moment though?)