My thoughts refuse to be organized. Pastoral scenes will not engage me. The milky way fades and the trees emerge, as dense night is displaced. The days have been too alike, leaving me mired in their monotony. Contemplation of the past provides only a sense of ennui. A change of scene would be nice. I have slipped into summer doldrums and barely noticed the process. No thunderstorms in sight, but only the arid days on end, the blank blue sky, the desiccated fields of prickly grass. Not yet the middle of July, and already the summer seems ages old.