November is the weirdest time, it’s spacious and feral. It swallows you whole.
November is the same feeling as not knowing what to do with your hands.
November is too vast, too much. The weather changes and stays, the weather finally decides what it wants to be, glares in your face with decision.
Choose.
Make a choice it says. Who do you want to be? Pick a place for your hands to rest.
November sizzles. I hope it will catch its spark as I lay and wait for December.
December is for running.
December holds such greatness this year.











