It isn't that I do not care, but it starts once again and I know that this time I won't have the strength to lift my mood from wherever it will be when I'm done, when they're done.
I'd like to be revived by some strange feeling, a feeling which would make my writing worth reading, a feeling which would make my days worth the light. Such a light. It is fading anyway, since winter is not that far away.
I want snow for my birthday. Is that too much to ask?
Well, probably yes, because there are no signs of such phenomena.
But I want it.