You could tell me it was August second or May 24th and I wouldn’t feel a difference either way. What’d you do this summer, people ask, like summer is a measure of -time- as if that means anything to me.
Mostly: laid laying lain around, had some pointless arguments, a few better times at home than the city I like least, especially in summer; resplendent with heat late into the night from the scatter moth bodies of everyone throwing themselves full tilt into being.
Me? I just don’t want to, really.
Consideration lies, lazes like a cat, somewhere between starting back up (the stockpile of anti depressants I took myself off years ago), or shoving any remaining guilt of staying in bed full time off like a too warm quilt, and sinking back to sleep.