♡

The first week of August hangs at the very top of summer, the top of the live-long year, like the highest seat of a Ferris wheel when it pauses in its turning. The weeks that come before are only a climb from balmy spring, and those that follow a drop to the chill of autumn, but the first week of August is motionless, and hot. It is curiously silent, too, with blank white dawns and glaring noons, and sunsets smeared with too much color. Often at night there is lightning, but it quivers all alone. There is no thunder, no relieving rain. These are strange and breathless days, the dog days, when people are led to do things they are sure to be sorry for after.

today’s the only day you can reblog this

You are now this random animal, you can't go back!

In addition to how to turn various things, it includes:

If anyone asks, no you did not see me and my eleven sisters dance around our room, which opened a magic portal down to some docks where we hopped onto boats shaped like swans that took us to a pavilion lined with trees that had leaves made out of silver and gold, as well as flowers that fulfill any wish where we would then dance our hearts out until our shoes are worn out by morning