After a week of chopping, throwing, piling and transporting wood from the woods, I now have brownish arms and white legs. And one muscle. I think. I'm not quite sure.
I tend to lie there, between the cherry tree and the plum tree, dreaming of summer adventures. I know I should just do it.. whatever it is.. "seize the day", that it's "better to regret what you've done than what you didn't do". I just hold back. I always have.
June always holds such promise, such potential for the summer to come. Long summer nights, the smell of lilacs, short skirts and the big, blue lake.. all that's lacking is a bit of excitement. I wonder where to go to find that?