6/28/12

Sweatshirts don't belong in this weather. Sweat is gathering and running from my upper lip. My face's tinge is getting deeper and deeper until my cheeks are warm and reddened. My paper is nothing but a weak fan and my clothes are oppressive, confining. Here you are covered in wool and fleece and I hurt just watching you. Are you cold? Is it because there's no meat on your bones?