What have I learned from seasons? Winter used to mean school and I learned things there. The swelter of Summer was fitting as it connotated a commute around various avenues of damnation. The subconscious routes of nightmares would have been preferable, but my accomplices were far too real, far too fixed in their pockets of flesh, some into which I attempted to slip my hands and freeze time. I stand accused of being malevolent, but how could that be so in light of my low status, and consequently no influence on my accomplices? I’d like to plead guilty to everyone’s accessory charges and make all involved happy in turn. A guilty plea would mean that I was happy too. Happy in a snarly state of opportunism, preying on those unfortunate cases sidetracked by a thought that they could reform me. Not that they would change my position in class, only veer my conscience in irony into areas they did not set out to reform. The areas their own conscience followed around in lust, curiosity, or some intangible amalgamation of the two. But I am innocent. Too innocent for connection to the follies of the time of year in which I never learned. I know I never learned; my January sweat tells me so. Is this some kind of piecemeal damnation? Is this some form of high torture for the desired dissatisfaction of innocence?
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