If June was the beginning of a hopeful summer, and July the juice middle, August was suddenly feeling like the bitter end.
Summertime. It was a song. It was a season. I wondered if that season would ever live inside of me
Everything good, everything magical happens between the months of June and August
What good is the warmth of summer, without the cold of winter to give it sweetness
And so with the sunshine and the great bursts of leaves growing on the trees, just as things grow in fast movies, I had that familiar conviction that life was beginning over again with the summer
