I almost feel I could read a book and go to bed for the night already. Got up early. I'm letting myself go to bed early these days when I find myself wanting to---with all the futzing that follows the decision, and a little reading or writing, it's still 11:30 or so when I finally turn the light off, but that's much earlier than I'm accustomed to. I still have the fight in me to stay up if I feel pressured by life's demands to hit the hay, but, well, maybe I'm not feeling so pressured. Or maybe death's second self isn't so unappealing, or hasn't been, this week.
Not that that's terribly interesting for anybody to read me thinking about.
I'm glad winter isn't over for the year. I haven't had enough yet. That is, I haven't had enough snow. People who come from this climate may not have ever thought it, or may not recall it in the heart so much, but snow is magic.