Itâs summer now, and youâre craving a simpler existence. You want to read. You want to write. You want to meet strangers for dinner, and not refuse another drink at another bar. You want to dance. You want to find yourself in a basement, neck loose, bobbing your head as a group of musicians play, not because they should, but because they must. Itâs summer now, and youâre looking forward to worrying less. Youâre looking forward to longer nights and shorter days. Youâre looking forward to gathering in back gardens and watching meat sputter on an open barbecue. Youâre looking forward to laughing so hard your chest hurts and you feel light-headed. Youâre looking forward to the safety in pleasure. Youâre looking forward to forgetting, albeit briefly, the existential dread which plagues you, which tightens your chest, which pains your left side. Youâre looking forward to forgetting that, leaving the house, you might not return intact. Youâre looking forward to freedom, even if it is short, even if it might not last. Youâre looking forward.