The wind is warm and dull and makes my skin feel like pipe tobacco crumbs, crumbling, bitter and maligned. These days my enthusiasm wallows like water pooling in a basin, evaporating slowly, leaving the surface scorched, barren and longingly deprived. I’m sick of planting crops of hope that wither on the vine. Rakish, pallid and untended things, with the texture of dreams and inherited ephemera. I think if I could only immerse myself, maybe my landscape would flourish and grow some verdant purpose. Would that it would rain, wash the sallow from my skin and renew the whole again.

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