Hot summer sun, hot only to me. Sweating underneath autumn layers from further west or east. Either way, we get back to where we were. There is no terminal point on a sphere, so we only go around once, around again until we figure that out. The interconnectedness we feel is the vibrations of this reality we experience together, one isolated instance at a time.
The first day, the air feels like a wool blanket I’m hiding under. My skin and my lungs remember the cold, the mold, chill autumn fog over the ocean. Sweat is wet, but not cold. The rain is wet, but not cold. The world is wet, but not cold.
And this is the days before Sam Hain? Strange.