the sounds are those of thunder, booms echoing off the walls of this valley. the air is just as adele has described her own home, the hazy aftereffects hanging around streetlights and holding all the heat in: it shouldn't be humid in a steppe, but it feels muggy all the same, and sometimes seeps into your throat and down your trachea, where it hovers around your ribcage and your lungs. it looks like colors, and smells like candles, a fragrance i adore, aside from oranges and pine trees. there was a noticeable decline in our clientele this evening, and there was a shouting match between two co-workers tonight that sent me back to the sink, in a hurry to get things done (and back to that place where i am not brave and avoid any sort of confrontation, but in this case it was a wise move, i think). i come home to shouts of revelry ringing through the night air, the snap, crackle and sizzles of tent-bought joy, and the dog skittish and the cat hiding under the covers of my mother's bed. no barbecues, due to an earlier lunch today which left me stuffed. i won't sleep well tonight.

happy 233rd, america. let's make it a good 'un.

-d