the sugary snow of springtime
my feet are cold.
i'm tucked into bed, the ugly rough blanket i have a strange affinity for scratches against my feet and legs creating, no doubt, a build up of static electricity i'll be able to see if i turn off my light. i have a bowl of granny smith apple slices to my right, and one of stephen king's books open across my lap. nim is sighing contentedly somewhere below my feet; sleepy, no doubt, from the intense killing of her very own tail she has just finished executing.
there were strange, large animal prints across my front step and lawn this morning. it seems that, despite these last falls of snow and miseries of cold, the world is starting to wake up.
i want to pick out seeds from a catalogue and eating nothing but citrus fruit.