(no subject)

funny how being home makes me not want to write.
i don't know what it is, but i feel lazy and hot. it's sort of stultifying. home slips over me like a warm blanket, i feel comfortable, but uninspired.
maybe the truth is that this just isn't home anymore.
a sad thought.
i can't wait to be back in my own house, as much as i adore my parents, and this city. i feel the need to be surrounded by space that i own.