Fast Forward

If only it were July.

We would slouch on our favorite sofa, grab a few magazines and let the afternoon go by in silence. Watch the stream of time trickle away, together. Can’t we skip this half-year? I could definitely do without six months of reruns. It’s the same day every day—no change in seclusion, save for the bowing sun staring longer at me, peering through a curtain of bare branches.

Munich and Lhasa can wait for the triumphant arrival of our fastened hands, can’t it? So much time is wasted in waiting! Let’s cut this long, boring film and show the interesting bits only. Two months out of twelve. How about those fifteen days too? Fog and food and frozen friends. Too bad you weren’t there, I’ll take you someday—someday, nothing but the distant future. We’re stuck in a prologue, page after page it’s a thrilling promise, but when will the real story begin?

If only it were July.

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