Such low and pointless feelings. And my annoying dictionary fetish. I never write anything of meaning or importance or great intuition. I linger in my box of emotional merry-go-rounds and caffinated stupors. How tragic that I can't for the life of me write something (anything) to do with life's beauty. Only my little world matters on paper. Fossils under my meat, so to speak. Or to quote? I miss snow. There, a complete thought, unhindered by my own pitiful emotions. But I so do. I miss the feeling of it's melting kisses on my eyelashes, my face, my tongue. Summer and I have come to a fork in the road. And let me tell you, Summer's the one skipping down the wrong path.