Mosquitoes are infesting the space I want to be in.

I like the way it feels outside.
My mother is annoying. She forces me to listen to her conversations by putting her correspondents on speaker phone.
And she hums loudly.
She is adept at interrupting people's thoughts.

As we drove through the neighborhood towards the house, a young man was standing in his driveway, rapping, facing the cars in the street, but no one in particular.

The warmth is like a blanket, a red one: dark, red, and smooth.

Sometimes I leave words out of sentences, but when I read them back to myself, because the thought is complete in my head, I fill in the blanks, and don't catch the mistakes.

I really hate how the mosquitoes are preventing me from being outside.