I could drink a case of you and still be on my feet

somehow, it has become summer and I love this, everyone sweating, messy hair clinging to backs of necks, everyone migrating to front porches, where all the stories and the Manu Chao and the home-brews that taste perfectly of burnt peaches come out. I want to ban air-conditioning for days like these, so we can sit on alternate wooden steps, telling stories about eating squirrel in Virginia and that maze of a train station in Buenos Aires and getting lost in Morocco until finally you give up trying to find your hostel and get drunk with men in massive, sinister-looking hoods. I want to toast and toast and toast to you, summer, until we have cheers-ed each other far into August, when we can say, oh, isn't this perfect, look at this world turning into red. Look at all of us, turning into something more beautiful.