Carnival Season

The fever doesn't really start until May, but the symptoms always hit me in April, when the afternoon sun is just warm enough to feel a little uncomfortable and the breeze at the top of a ferris wheel would be just the thing. When the nights are still cool enough to give you a real chill, the kind you don't just shake off as you stand in line, but carry with you when you climb aboard the Scrambler and pull the sleeves of your hoodie down and wait for the hard clunk of the door being locked in place. The nights that could be October if it weren't for all of the pink and white blossoms speeding past your eyes, worn a little yellow by the dotted line of lights along the frame of a nearby ticket booth. The nights just before everything is ok again, before summer finally lights the fuse that can't be stopped by a late overnight freeze and burns recklessly through the minutes and days and weeks until it explodes and we look out across a field of pull-tabs and plastic cups and pretend we can't see the sunrise. 

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