Hot July. Yauzskaya St

July... Once upon a time, this word burned my lips like the first sip of tea, smelled of hot asphalt, linden pollen, which thickened in the oppressive air, turning it into sticky honey. Now its just water dust. The gray gloom, hanging low over the city in an unrelenting, drenched pall, squeezed endless moisture from its depths. It seemed that the sky itself was leaking, and there was no end in sight to this bad weather...
© Author of the text Lola Sharovatova