I've forgotten what it's like to walk this desert.

I CAN'T STAND THE SUMMER.

I can't write a thing! And when I try, all that comes out sounds ridiculous.

So pretentious.

I miss the winter and it's frosty fingers. I miss the way it would whisper icicles in my ear, and how I would type out novels, just to keep my fingers from freezing. Words evaporate in the summer heat, long gone before I can catch a glimpse of them. But in winter, they freeze in place and stick around for days before they melt away.

I must escape this, I will. One way or another.