I haven't written since christmas. After Winter I even gave up writing to Flora, so don't feel offended. My joi de vivre has slowly dissolved into a little pool of sour feelings in the pit of my stomach. Hope and naivity have always seemed like assets to me in a way but spring has crushed my hopes.
January and February were similair: frosty yet comforting. March was bizarre though calling off the months in a list seems so impersonal and official. It's terrifying how quickly the fairest of the seasons has evapourated.
Everytime a new season comes along, I decide that I like it the best but spring has been dissapointing. Summer will bring warm wine and little clothing as is normal practise in the cities until I escape to France and whirl away my time being tutted at by old french biddies & stared at by young french boys on mopeds. Pricks.
January and February were similair: frosty yet comforting. March was bizarre though calling off the months in a list seems so impersonal and official. It's terrifying how quickly the fairest of the seasons has evapourated.
Everytime a new season comes along, I decide that I like it the best but spring has been dissapointing. Summer will bring warm wine and little clothing as is normal practise in the cities until I escape to France and whirl away my time being tutted at by old french biddies & stared at by young french boys on mopeds. Pricks.
