It’s July, August.. 
And this is what it means to have a muse. Bone blame. 
A poet will work in a freezing apartment that is far more than a place for thoughts to gather thru summer. She struggles in cold rooms for little compensation (available at box) and goes beyond the joy of subverting the arbiters of something. Something something. 
 
Paperwork fastened to repetitive joy, July, August..