A Thursday of Indian Summer. Makes me want to shuck my skinnies and expose faded tanlines to the level three UV Index.
Or I'll listen to Washed Out. Oozy boudoir synth, all pink pillows of sea foam and low country longing from Ernest Greene. I'll throw on neon wayfarers, slide my cut-neckline sweatshirt off one shoulder and smack some watermelon bubblicious before a solid sesh of seven minutes in heaven.