Forced writing is rarely good writing

Summer is a strange bubble. It feels terminal--the warmth, the quiet, but mostly the strange freedom. Oh, it's summer, I don't have to get up in the morning, I don't have homework I should be doing. I must be dying. All this reading time--can't be real. I have sideslipped into an alternate reality. I am living in the matrix. This is faerie-land, and if I poke my head out into the real world, I will discover that a million years have passed and everyone I love has died, while I was curled in my papasaun catching up on FABLES.

Too easy to loose ties in summer, too easy to dip into a story, too easy to spend five days under figurative water, lose yourself in the figurative woods. Too easy to overexert or to atrophy. Green season, mean season. Mind-slag.

Time is an illusion. Summer-time?

Some radioactive brain juice to infect you.
Yours &c,
E. A. Weatherfield