Marcel Winatschek

Last Days of Summer

Summer’s fading. Late August and the light’s already changing angle, the heat releasing just enough that you remember you can breathe. I’ve got a playlist for this moment every year—just songs that mark the turning without being about it. The Weeknd, Destroyer, Little Dragon. Nothing fancy, nothing that means anything except it felt right when the season was shifting.

I’m tired of summer by August anyway. Tired of the heat, the people, the pressure to be doing something with your time. There’s something clean about knowing the dark months are coming, the quiet after this loud season.

The playlist will probably disappear by October. But for August, it’s the small proof that something was worth noticing, even if it was just the light and the right song at the right moment.