May is when the sun would string, makes the mikroleters stare in envy to those in the air-conned box. May this year is when the sun greys, pouring down velvetish ash from Merapi. Occasional rains that wash away thick black bulk from old metrominis, which makes me yell, eat your own dirt, polluters!
By the way, I hate May. In spite of the Tauruses, May puts hearts on the brink of savoir good byes, eternally, unpredictably. Different with December, when you part, partly, and be excited. Manner yourself better, suffocate your body with juices, face with blushes. Since you'll meet again in the midst of january. On May, you're not sure, whether he will walk on La Ramblas on July, hike on Andalucia silent mountains, or on the antique Galicia, Oviedo where Fernando Alonso was born.
and whether I will be where.