Ah, where has the summer gone?
Such languishing weeks of pithy indolence, such dreamy hours beneath the flocculent sky, expectations drifting away, feelings of mirth dancing betwixt our fingertips! So much for the annual vacating of routine and toil!
What? You say it's still June? What calendar are you using?
Oh, uh . . . well, I--
It seems it's true: the summer period is yet only one-third gone. What a shame!
Now what shall I do? Obviously, I must return to my slothy existence amid the lowly, lonely landscapes of lucid daydreaming, there to make whoopy among the daffodils and daisies, to swim through the seas like a great shiny fish, to flap through the air like the biggest of bees -- Nay, that is not the best way to dally around the camp fire, to dither up to the drinking stand, to sip and sup and tell huge lies, to stretch and sing and fornic--
What say all of you? Had enough of this balderdashery? Too much of the piles of cows? The sweet delight of the fecund trails overfill your nostrils?
That, my dearest friends, is the framework through which we embrace our summertime frivolosity, much in the same way, though frightfully brief, as the delicate little poofs of weekend pleasures we memorize for later indulgence.
So off we go to the hinterlands, away to the fields and forests, on and beyond we galavant, to the horizons and more, to the moors and back, to the back of forever, and ever more . . . .
[I have just now been instructed to take a vacation and regain my sanity. I merely laughed, of course, for what is sanity but the mirror of insanity, yet who can know whether the mirror stands for us or we stand in for the mirror? Bags are packed, and I am out the door--]