It’s a very rainy Sunday in Boise today. I am alone in my attic bedroom. I’m wearing a fur vest and white jeans. I am writing a short story that takes place off the 15 near Palm Springs. My coffee is cold. My hair is tangled. The rain clatters very clearly up here. When I stop writing, I think about you. My roommates are drinking coffee downstairs. They are discussing the merits of our Frankenstein garden near the front window. It doesn’t feel like winter. It feels like a very cold spring in a place I have not been to yet. I prefer the rain to the snow, the dim light to the darkness. I prefer staying in bed and drinking tea to pretty much everything these days. I have more to read, more to write, and more to do than I could ever possible have time for. What I really want floats to the surface. Lately, I have decided I will become a large-scale installation macrame artist. I am hungry. Things will not always be as they are even if your day feels as it always is. Someday, this kind of day will be nothing but a rainy memory. Write yours down.