My room is cold. I walk into my bathroom and wonder why I ever thought so. I come back and I know why.
I have gone to the library to do my writing. I do so much there that I can’t believe it’s my hands that have done all the work. The library is room temperature.
Hot yoga is hot. I never put my fingertips on the floor even when we are supposed to, because there are little islands of sweat that used to be inside of me but now are not. Madness. I always have to pull my pants up so my underwear doesn’t show.
Oil pastels are hot and Google Docs is lukewarm. ♦