From a journal entry a few days ago:
It's almost June and it already smells like squamous cells and artificial fruit. With summer comes an exponential increase in panic attacks or at least the likelihood of them. The air is dense and the people are too eager. Every summer it's as if I am incapable of having thoughts, plural. I have a single thought I cannot identify save for the fact that it involves such a horrifying sense of surveillance and the need to escape that it chokes me. This sensation grows all summer long like a tuber, underground, and come autumn, all that suspicion is ripe, and it's what I will eat all winter."
I hate summer. I don't deal well with the people, the heat, the urgency behind everything, that primordial urge to stockpile both material and experience to get us through winter. When I sit out on my deck at night smoking I can hear small things being eaten by larger things, I can see the insects dumbly crashing into the porch light again and again...it's fucking depressing. I'm going to close my eyes until October.