Soybeans and green grass.

The mailbox is my only friend. I'm still waiting. I'm a slave to it. Three down. Fifteen to go.

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Recently, besides my twenty-first birthday, the scariest thing has been the vernal equinox. This anticipation that spring will weed and weave its way into my cerebellum again intimidates me to no end.

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All I want to do: lie on my back against the grass, listen to Amiina, read Matthea Harvey, eat a tube of strawberry pastilles. Not: writing papers about things that do not matter.

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Disenchantment. Lack of desire.

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Questions I've considered in the past year:

1. What kind of bird is Andrew Bird?

2. Where did all the umbrellas go?

3. When the apocalypse is so soon, what is there to do?

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The world is so much better.

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Despite how it's ending.