Having a hard time in spring makes me think it is my least favorite season. My paleness frostbitten from eager pedal pushers and my hairs luster lacks gone away with the beanie I lived in. My face loves the sun, but it was too much too soon and the burn remains. Oh and death is spring because babies can’t care for themselves yet. The first buds of bland blooms, backdrop for later’s begonia. It is not exciting to see this life struggle out of sleep when the season of sadness spills over. Spring, she’s bipolar a bit. The warmth is hit or miss and she takes so long to get out of bed. Get out of the fog, get of out of the grey. She takes the moments you hold your breath the longest before plunging out of the horizon and runs her finger along the film as to slow it down because when you’re sad in Spring you feel as though winter is forever.