It has been the loneliest of summers.
One feels the weight of the heat and the sadness some days like avalanches.
And the sweat.
Sweat makes a man feel like an animal. And animals don't tend house, or fold clothes, or mind dirt, like a man should.
The loneliness is violent. A quiet, violent loneliness. The pain of which can hit anew, a surprise attack. Some formerly insignificant sight or occurrence becomes a jarring reminder; some slight awakening, a little shake, a little nudge, and the dull film of time and forgetting, of carefully orchestrated habits and distractions, scratches off, and reality glares back in familiar, stark lights. You look in on yourself as if through a window, or from a box seat, not only a participant now, but a spectator. You look in on yourself for the first time, once again.
Beginning of a story...? Only time will tell.