I can’t fucking do this, I can smell the humidity in the air, the scent of summer and the dirt and cicada and the leaves with holes that bugs chew out. The dirty manmade pond and water, the moss and mold, the dirty plaster walls and how I dug and drew on it witb the keys to the only place I knew home. The stickiness in the palms of children holding their money and coins thinking that one comic book and some crossfire skin was all they need in being alive. The oxidized metals and plastic and rusty bikes layed in layers of spiderwebs and dusts in the underground parking lot. The sticky screen of iPhone 5, the novels the books the smell of dust the smell of badly ventilated rooms and spaces and that was all, everything. I can’t ever go back, I never saw how precious it was, my only chance as a child I wasted it and I’m not ready. Please don’t take my time away I never grew up from those summers. The quiet shade under the leaves of plane trees and the scent of plants and real life. Without the heat I’m nothing, without the child’s body I’m not supposed to be alive.