Fallow

All seasons are past. Four names, three languages, two places, one date. Mientras, standing in a windtunnel in new courtyard in an old building in a baked city on a drizzle-cooled evening trying to seem interested in free booze and high culture and good-looking well-dressed people, frowning and swearing and handing out cards like some sort of pretend adult, choosing to go home, softly, in a small silent silver car.

What use is youth without ease?

I found a leaflet in the park. On the front, it said: How to Survive. On the back: Inhale. Don't breathe.