Sometimes that early-morning dew that leaves my room smooth and cool to the touch is really just grease, with the grit and asphalt of the city as its pan, and five hours later we are roasting and still sticking to everything.

The woodchuck on the label of my cider looks quite silly holding a raspberry up to his nose, and i opted for a cup and straw instead, which – i think – makes this day inconceivably more lazy than it was beforehand.