forests in serik and manavgat on fire

I have always had difficulty reading the writers of the South. Capote, McCullers, Williams… They all managed to reflect human soul so well that it was impossible not to feel depressed; the heat, the dust, and the humid air, hanging and covering you like an invisible veil. Like your own sweat.

Sweat.. Despite the northerly wind it clings to me still. On an ordinary day, I could have liked it. I could have, because it would have marked the beginning of summer, the favorite season of the idle, of Russell, of me.

But I did not. Watched the forests from Serik to Manavgat burn instead, regretting the Forest Love video of the previous post.

That’s why the Southern writers are so good. You hate them, yet they move you. Turning over the next page can be an agony, yet you feel you have to, to face the truth, to look inside you. Did you?

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