I don’t know why I take afternoon naps when I always wake from them in a melancholy. But it’s hot here, hot and sticky and humid, and some days I feel like I can’t do anything but feel my brain slow into the tropical languour, and the fan swooning back and forth is a rhythmic lull, and my book slips out of my hand, and Satie’s Gymnopédies carry me off. It’s really the Gnossiennes that get to me most, I think. Somehow the Gnossiennes will always be to me driving in France, heading back to Paris from the country, with the summer sun hot on our arms and necks, the sharp cigarette smoke, the wind and the road whipping by through windows rolled down. Number Five was on when I woke to the Gnossiennes this evening. Fuzzy and displaced with sleep, I remembered a kiss from a boy, downstairs in the dim yellow.