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August

 August. Just the right time for a comet to come. Summer seems to be here, but in fact is already over. Nightishly cool August quietly blows away the remains of strawberry heat through the open window . During the day, apples are glowing gold in the sky and warm the ground softly, as if towards the evening. Even if arrows fly to the earth, making asphalt red-hot – it is not real.

In the morning I will wake up feeling slightly sad, not knowing why.

It is not autumn yet, but it is already time to pick stars, dried berries and summer memories into a jar, so as not to live on them in winter. The jar will fall down in the yard, and they will sprout from the stones. Later, not now.

Time to read books. Books bring peace to a head not falling on a pillow until midnight. Books don’t let us inconsolably forget what is far away, long ago and not soon.

The moon turned strange. But her thoughts, inelegantly elegiac, float smoothly.

It is past midnight again, the night has opened its wings over my hemisphere and is flying, almost touching the cold walls. A street lamp is looking into the window, making sure that everything is alright, only I am not sleeping. In such a night, on a broom… in such a night, no energy… Will something happen? Why? Too calm is everything, not at all like waiting… Just the right time. No, not time. This is not time at all.