Love the sun. Crooked legged frogs, twitching between home depot pavers. The heat was everywhere, you'd move a few inches and leave a phantom of sweat hanging in the air behind you. The bottom of my feet were raw, burning through the calloused soles I'd built for myself. Baccus snickered and laughed of sprinklers, otter pop Wednesdays, staring into the fridge as if looking into nirvana. We were always outside, dodging smokers and apeing skaters, trodding our death march down to the canals to smoke garbage tobacco out of pvc. Still we wore long pants, high tops, sweatshirts. Couldn't fight the heat anyway, embrace the fire, ash rained from the sky as redwoods became aerosolized. A million years of old growth gone every second, but it was just another Wednesday and I was too busy enjoying my corn syrup to think of history. Under the ball of fire, born of dog days and short nights, where the windows would fly open to catch that little breath of chill, the temp barely scratching the low 60s but better than the triple digits. I was always afraid, the day smelled of knives in my palms. Our old deck groaned and trembled under the weight of just one smoker, the wood fraying and splinter ridden, to say nothing of the spiders. Dinner was always served as a second thought, cigarettes first, but appearances were necessary. I evening dreamed warily next to the tiger cage, the rolled steel forsaken in favor of a screen door. Marlboros, reds if all things. Breath was acrid and stinging, but couldn't leave. Couldn't abandon blood. Then food, eaten quietly, then bed. We hairdressered our mattresses, laying down, trench warfare with a spray bottle. Windows open, but the day hadn't left the house quite yet, never used a blanket, v