The room is full of light, and he is full of the feeling of summer. The way it stays warm all night, so that he sleeps with the fan. He loves that moment when he parks the car in the shade and wants nothing so much as to lay across the seats and sleep through the afternoon. What does it take, he wonders, to hold on to moments like this? How is it possible for a man to fend off the winter that’s seeded, sleeping, in his heart?

I wrote this today and I have no idea where it’s going. Alas!

Crap can it?