So maybe seasons do exist in this place, though you probably couldn't tell just from looking at it through pictures on postcards. It's marked by the days gradually getting shorter, leaving more time for the night to facilitate the exit of heat from the earth's atmosphere, sucked in the vacuum of space. In the silent hours before dawn, we wake to discover the cold has already crept in.
My days are bereft of meaning. My only consolation is my morning bike ride, which so far has not been taken away by wind chills, but that will only be for so long. More than ever I'm in need of something to do to keep me busy. But I'm lacking in the necessary creativity and motivation to fill my hours with humdrum activities. There are books I'd like to read, but I can't concentrate on the words that line their pages. There are songs I'd like to write, but so far all I have are melodies and chord progessions - too many, in fact, that need words to accompany them.
I'm on a four-day winning streak against my grandpa at nine ball pool. If only I were as lucky in the other aspects of my life - you know, the ones that actually matter.
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