Some days in L.A. are particularly hazy. I don't know why. A giant cloud of smog seems to settle in on the city. It makes me wonder what the inside of my lungs are beginning to look like.
Also, the California Coast doesn't earn Spring. It's never winter, it's never fall, it's always spring. It's not as sweet. There isn't that sense of rebirth. Of making it out of woods, of sudden freedom to go outside. Seasons here aren't as intense. Or as memorable.
They are plastic.
Weak.
I find myself reading about seasons hungrily. Descriptions of sweat and humidity. Or someone's burning face in the harsh winter air. The ordeal of getting dressed to go somewhere in January. Or sloshing through the streets in snow boots.
How can people love living here? Without variety. Without change. Without time.
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