Summer strolls are difficult because everything is hot. The sun beats down—burning flesh, bleaching hair, and drying throats. Salty sweat invades your eyeballs like hoplites in phalanx formation. You can't fight back. Wiping only makes it worse.
The other enemy is the ever present wasps. They outnumber you, they don't like you, but as long as you keep your distance they barely notice your existence.
Winter walks are difficult because everything is cold. The sun beats down, yet it has succumbed to battle fatigue. If you march fast enough you can still sweat, but it's nothing more than a nuisance. The eyes are still a casualty. The icy breath of winter dries them, a torment far worse than the whispers of summer. Neither season is at peace with the eyes.
Winter would appear to be an ally against the wasps. Prepare for betrayal dear friend. Though they dwindle in numbers—they remain hungry. Very hungry. Winter merely gossips and arouses their wrath. Finally, after all this time they attack. Fly at you. Land on you. They would devour you if they had the strength, but they are merely corpses.
two frozen wings
a payment to Charon
for safe passage
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