It's summer again in the English countryside.
Days are long and blissfully sunny.
But as usual, to me, summer days are filled with this strange kind of melancholy I can't quite explain.
They are the days filled with nostalgia, childhood memories that spring back into my mind randomly.
Visions of past summers, the sweet taste of cherries, juice of a ripe peach trickling down the chin as you bite into it.
Hands always sticky, feet full of blisters from walking way too much, bare legs scraped with blades of sharp grass.
Nothing changed, really.
My feet are still full of blisters, and legs still hurt from my long walk in the tall grass in the English countryside.
I have a vivid memory imprinted in my brain.
I was probably around nine years old and it was my birthday.
