My blood isn’t warm enough, but the rising chill of February brings fondness into my existence. The wind tangles my hair and laughs in my ear. I hear her reciting words that have been tapped into existence by men in waist coats in archaic villas from centuries before. A yearning to quote Cloeridge and record my bad habits (because what good in a 19 year old never-eating-sometimes-sleeping-always-thinking female can there be?) overtakes me.

It’s time to start a new journal. So here I go...

"Weave a circle round him thrice,
And close your eyes with holy dread,
For he on honey-dew hath fed,
and drunk the milk of Paradise."