The world has finally started to act as if it’s summer. The air is hot and sticky, and everything happens in slow motion, moves in slow motion. And still we sweat and we sweat. My blood pumps slowly through my veins and my legs feel heavy as I sit in the sun wondering if I will ever feel hungry again. We drink fresh mint iced tea and stay up late, gulping in the cool night air like a cure.
The vegetables melt in the kitchen over night, grow big fuzzy sweaters of grey mold. The dumpsters smell like rotting, like fermentation, and if we don’t get there the night they’ve tossed the produce, it’s already become a part of the dumpster juice.
The world smells pungent–of flowering plants, of sweat, of rotting–and I think of Werner Herzog talking about the jungle in Mein Liebster Feind. About how the jungle is a repugnant place reeking of sex and death and murder. About how he loves it anyway, against his better judgment.
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