Summer is trying to make up for lost time, I think. I don't remember the sun being so aggressive or the woolen air so heavy here. I don't mind. It's all a welcome means to the deep thaw needed to melt the permafrost memory of winter still residing deep within my being.

I sat outside reading, feeling the sun batter at my translucent northern european skin with its cancerous UV rays and thanking it for the service. Squinting hard at the reflective pages I drank up prose with relief, like I always do. My two selves are continually at war, and the gregarious socialite almost always wins, and the quiet bookworm tucks herself away to resurface on warm afternoons and at the end of a writer's block.

Reading always makes me this way.

Content.

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