Yearning.

Summer has taken over the city.
It has seeped into its very core, through the city walls, past layers of sweat, grime and memories. Its soul breathes summer now. And longs for rain.
The air is heavy with an overpowering languor which carries at its heart a tiny flicker of restlessness.
And I dream.
Of sitting on a suitcase, on a top of a bus racing through open roads. Wind in my hair, an old song playing in my head.
Of quiet cafe corners in old, walled cities and warm afternoons littered with pens and notebooks.
Of tiny, unexpected alleys laden with smells: of spices, of incense and of the river.
Of a cabin on a mountain, crafted from mist, fern and rain.

And I yearn.