In deep, far beneath

I always assumed that the summer lull was brought on by temperatures in the hundreds where even breathing feels unnaturally sticky hot, not wanting to do anything for fear of drowning in even more excess sweat, but those don't-wanna-leave-my-bed summer mornings persist in the cool, gray of Santa Cruz.  Our current room is small and uninspiring, and I do not leave it entirely as often as I would like because going outside would mean bundling up and bundling up would mean foraging through the garage for my winter clothes, and I do not leave my bed until a few more minutes past the alarm in order to psyche myself up for the quickly diminishing heat of the tepid shower.  If it were at all hot, I would be motivated to get my bicycle down from the bows of the garage and get myself down to the beach, but it's not hot at all.  Bundled in a down comforter, I must reassess my assumptions.  And, happily, I must succumb to the warm laziness of under the covers--at least for one more week until my whole closet can reassemble in the new and gigantic closet of the Dream House, and I will be close enough to the beach where I won't be as disappointed if freezing water and fragile nerves are at war.