(Drag across the frame above to scrub through the month — then read on. Real July words go here; for now it’s holding the shape of the entry.)

July came slow and stayed late. The kind of month where the light hung around past nine and nobody was in a hurry. Chrome went warm in the long sun; everything moved like it was underwater.

Write whatever you want here next: what the heat did to the days, the song you couldn’t stop, the one evening that’s still with you. The light is the only rule.