So, after a long weekend, I realized that the amount of sunlight in my dorm is insufficient for my plants' growth.

I'm looking for a sustainable, eco-friendly way of getting light. Do wind-powered lamps exist? Maybe snow-powered lamps? Not sure.

Bianca and the newly-named Sir Edward III are doing incredibly well.
Since snowember has started, I've decided to water them once every 18 days.

By the way, a week ago, I got two more succulents.
And a few days ago, I got three more succulents -- one of them an aloe vera plant.
So yes, now there are seven plants in my dorm.
I love LOVE them so much, honestly, they're a beautiful extension of who I am.

I love to feel, and I think a lot of people share this common sentiment. I love to feel – to touch – the deep crevices in old, black walnut trees. I love to feel the warm, sentimental hugs my parents give me whenever I return home from months away in boarding school. I love to feel the cool wind blow onto the side of my face as I crank the car window open just a little bit on the freeway.

"Language carries culture, and culture carries, particularly through orature and literature, the entire body of values by which we come to perceive ourselves and our place in the world."

I'm not sure how to think about this.

So, the other day, as I read through some parts of my blog, I realized one story could be altered and written as an intro to my creative writing project. The story flowed well, but the ending puzzled a lot of people. I, the writer, don't even know if it's good or bad. So here's the ending:

At some point during June’s drive, she decided to stop at where she first met Michael, near a small beach by the Lake Erie shore.

It was a horrible beach, not well-maintained, with little to no traffic. She parked in a bushy, overgrown area and exited the car. As she walked, slowly, to the bench that faced the lake, she decided to sit there, crossing her legs.

The beach was not always like this. At some point, it was lively. Children chasing each other and playing tag. People training their dogs, vendors selling lemonade. It was the place where she used to talk and laugh with Michael, while feeling the icy cold water rushing up her heels, the smooth sand touching the tips of her toes. They used to relax on the beach, him looking at her lovingly while she read her books that were thrifted from a second-hand store, some by Chekhov, others by Tolstoy and Dostoevsky. June discussed her philosophies with Michael, too, and occasionally, they talked about the new gourmet French restaurant that opened in the city.

She missed those days when she didn’t have to worry about anything. Not their mortgage, not the funeral arrangements, not the fact that she hasn’t read a single book in a year. Frankly, she missed the days before having puffy eyes from crying herself to sleep every night. Whenever she thinks about her life in the past few months, a tear runs down her cheek. Like always, she quickly wiped it away from her face. Rather bewildered, she closed her eyes and relaxed her body, imagining a warm sensation crawling down from her head to her shoulders, to the tips of her fingers, to her thighs, and her knees and her toes. She fell asleep.

Moments later, as clouds started gathering in the sky, she heard a car pull up behind her. She slowly opened her eyes and turned to see Michael rushing angrily at her. She stared at his baggy suit.

“You look thin–”

“–What the hell are you doing here?” he screamed, interrupting her.

“Michael, sit,”

“No,”

“Sit. Please,”

He reluctantly walked to the front of that rusty bench and sat beside her. She looked at him and gently rested her head on his shoulder.

“Look,” she whispered, softly, pointing at the horizon while closing her eyes.

“What a beautiful day.”