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I keep on denying it, but what’s the use really? They say it’s still summer out there, but it’s not anymore, not quite; you can feel that in the way the days smell – of grilled peppers and aubergines, in the way the air isn’t really hot in the evenings, even though the midday heat is scorching, in the way the sunset light has a soft melancholy to it. Another summer wasted, another summer moved on, another summer gone.

But I can still feel the taste of French vanilla on my tongue. So I hopelessly hang on to the small pieces of this sultry, rich season, fooling myself that there’s still time. Time for what? For anything. For all those days to lie in the sun, not moving an inch, except to get another frozen yogurt, for gazing at the skies and for looking for falling stars, for pretending the city is a maze and just allowing yourself to get lost, to wander aimlessly.

I looked into your eyes and I couldn’t help but wonder where the summer had gone. The summers are shorter now, you know.

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