Binders full of women.

The summer of hot wind: the year a US presidential election takes place. Keeps getting earlier, doesn’t it? Maybe we all need to keep binders of women. Maybe we need to keep binders of fresh air. Nature’s air. The air that hovers over those freshwater brooks they show on the natural bottled water. That air, captured inside tin cans, so that when you breathe it, you get a hint of tin, a hint of mankind, a hint of what we’ve done. Fucking politicians.