Not yet integrated

The last few days are somewhat surreal. Sudden heatwave (summer in April!), market stall on Friday with much reading of Proust while the stall opposite me played 'War of the Worlds' on a small gehetto blaster, more Proust on Saturday and a dash up to London for a memorial party and back in a thunderstorm, more Proust this morning, followed by lunch with friends and a book group discussion of Proust (Guermantes way part 1). Now I am in the messy cabin with my non-beach ready feet(!) and Proust on my kindle. I think I might need a drink.

Isn't that what heatwaves are for, lolling about in?
Nothing is making much sense at the moment. If I were Proust, I might try to analyse the feeling of unreality. If I were a musician, I might play a ten-minute guitar solo. But I have only my purple phone and white feet, so I try to make some meaning out of un-meaning by layering effects.