In July, don’t you find that there is just too much going on? Everyone wants to visit. Meet for drinks, have a barbecue, go for a bike ride, find a nice patio, exchange photographs, host reunions to which you must bring antipasti. We are too much exposed in summer. Old friends you haven’t seen for five years call you and you get together and it’s wonderful and you lie down at night on cool white sheets and wonder how it’s possible that you have talked so much your throat hurts and listened so long, your eyes are burning, as though eyes had anything to do with listening. The fatigue presses like the heat and your ac-averse spouse sleeps, comfortable and sweet, while you wonder how much fragrance is possible for blossoming shrubbery to exude into the atmosphere before the whole world just sneezes. It smells too rich -- all earth and roses and skunks -- all the stimuli you want to reflect on in winter, staring at the white wall, in order to turn into fiction. So you have to go to sleep. The bright days have been good for writing. Summer is best for me when I imagine it.