First of August. The beginning of the month made him think of remote days of vacation, in V* on the L* Lake in the red house surrounded by red houses. The long afternoons, the starry nights, the birds singing in the mornings awake, Wodka scared of the waters, Agata resting in the sun, the dormice below the roof that would run in the nighttime. Still, he was tired to remember it once again. He tried so many times already to identify those childhood feelings, the taste of the long days' hours; to recall grandma, cousins as they were, green crackled bench under the red colonnade with the single column, uneven stones in the pathway, large explorable garden and surroundings and missions along he lake. To give it a thoroughly description that would fit his sensations and merge it with a possible reality: an exercise he began too many times, had lasted for too long, was renovated too many times. Now the memories of that period were not mythical anymore, au contraire, were dully repeated as recalled, just springing out complete, developed in an instant fashion to picture the past so quickly it had no real taste anymore.
Well, already he learned and once again: never indulge in memories when not needed. As easily they are spoiled.