I feel the net of a broken summer dragging all hope and love to another part of me, where everything is perpetual winter. It is a closed storefront, a barren wasteland, an unwanted bog, things that take up space but have no inherent value. It is a mixture of me and them and lies and whispers, and I want to grab it all and drown it in the swamp, bury its carcass beneath the peat, and then walk away to an unknown horizon.