(no subject)
Everything is just a little bit disappointing and nothing is too hard. Time is crumpled up but soon it will smooth itself out, open again into a very slightly creased version of its perfect white, and open the nights up to me once more. They will be white and polar and nothing like the blaring danger of summer. Exhaustion will have to dissipate, scatter down from my high heels and roll off like heat, and half-tired eyes can contemplate nothing too hurtful. So what if it's gray now? It'll turn brilliant. Every dry leaf will be left in a crisp, and forgotten forever.