Heat.

I have this strange inability to retain heat. I am constantly cold, and perhaps, this is what has spurred what I can only describe as a romanticization  of heat. I love the heat, though I don’t hate cold (read: curled up by fire, wine/book in hand), there’s something about heat I almost crave. Bizarre, perhaps. And it’s a certain type, the dry heat that penetrates your skin and ignites your bones filling your whole body with warmth.  Not the hot, sticky humidity that gives the distinct impression you’re swimming in air, suffocating your skin as sweat cascades down your spine: this heat, I do not like. No, I prefer the stark, bone-dry heat of the desert, the desolate, searching variety that suggests danger.

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