(it is the 6th of July, 2010)
I languish in summer heat and hormonal surges.
I sweat and wish to roam, to yell song lyrics in someone's face,
to overthrow and tumble to the ground some ancient, conservative hegemony.

I wish I had my virginity, so I could lose it (to a girl I'm not sure I love, but think I do) in a night of inexperienced hands, embarrassment and apologies.

[Here, I pause, searching for words, wiping the perspiration off my forehead with the heel of my hand. I look out of the window, where a jutting piece of roof bisects the sky - blue above, below yellow and pink, like a tropical cocktail. I return to my writing:]

What I receive, instead of love, monumental shiftings of the world order,
lunacy, fire, profound insights, a genetic predisposition for abdominal muscles,
and sex -
what I receive, is mosquito bites.

From Wikipedia:
"Visible, irritating bites are due to an immune response from the binding of IgG and IgE antibodies to antigens in the mosquito's saliva."

I have suffered many of these, in the Swedish summer;
I am host to a multitude of them now.
But the worst one is here: look:
right there, on my thumb. See it? It's not big.
But it's damn near the most irritating thing I've ever experienced.

[And I planned this out as a short poem.]

Diurnal, nocturnal - even critters crepuscular,
(as, I have just now learnt, mosquitos are)
all ye beasts who roam the lands;
carnivores and herbivores alike,
flitting birds and darting fish;
mammals and reptiles, creatures real and unreal -
all ye cryptids and atmospheric beasts...

Ye who live short lives of animal violence, I feel a likeness to you in me.
Your fang and claw are my voice, your free flight my restless roaming.

Your predatory hunt my outrage, my joy, my vitriol, my passion.

Your fierce coupling my libidinal chaos.

We are alike, we all, to live on impulse our lives, which end in a m a d d a s h - - -