Trains of thought.

Railways of words chasing one another across the page.

When does it end?

Do they ever feel the ache of icy sea breeze and hear the lonely call of a seagull?

And dip their fleshy toes into the frigid cold of green glass, rippling and shattering onto the broken bones of molluscs, with life long gone from them.  

Oh, to be a word.

A mere ant.

An ant that binds to all the others in it's colony and carries the weight of nations.

Letters have purpose.

Creamy homemade paper, because I was feeling exravagent.

I would have liked the functional shop-bought envelope.

There was novelty to the idea of using stamps and red post boxes.

I miss novelty.

It has so much value.

Everything seems jaded and scraggly now.

Nothing is truly exhilirating. 

I think that it has something to do with the seasons.

I'm waiting for the rain.

The rain that will wash the dry, hot dust of summer away.

I'm waiting.