Die Summer, Die.
I know a lot of you are beach-loving f**kers, but my sweaty flesh discomforts me. So go suck an egg. Fall is here, and in his brisk evenings and fair mornings he will take the ashen stump from a rowdy bonfire with friends and rip open summers sun-burnt face and bathe in the blood and broken Wayfarers.
Death to summer, and all hail fall’s beauty, colors, layers, and afternoon walks. And thankful are my undershirts. They go with mercy; having no more pit-stains. Die summer, die!
