Hot summer days…

Hey, Lee, it’s me, your writer, your creator, your god, the person who imagines a life for you, then lives your life in proxy.

You are genderless, ageless, born of this planet but not bound to it forever.

Today, I sit in this hot house, in the hothouse of a sunroom, on a late July afternoon, pondering your future.

The trees outside are thirsty, their leaves turning brown.

Hummingbirds look for nourishment, tasting the sweating fig leaves.

I fight off the immediate urge to nap and think about what you’ll do next in the narrative of you and Guin as Martian Pioneers 

There are decades of Earth-based living that you have to deal with until you leave this planet.

The years will pass by quickly enough.

But let’s think about them now.

Then I’ll nap.

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