Outside our tiny apartment, the sun is inexorably browning our grass and boiling the asphalt. It's 105 dry degrees outside, and dusty—the combines are turning the fields back to dust in their metaphorical, cyclical patterns. Inside, the blinds are drawn and two fans are turning, somewhat lazily. It's cool and dark, and it smells like cool and dark in here. In the kitchen a few minutes ago, my hands were wet from the juice of peaches I made for breakfast. So ripe their skins came off w...

I kill you without words or meaning; with boredom— it's just, my friends left.