At 5 am, today is one of those days on which you feel you could easily spend the whole thing just recovering from yesterday--drinking water, washing the dishes, bolstering up your heart and soul for the next bout of human contact--but somehow, there is no time, and you must go to work. This day feels like the last dregs of yesterday; can I really stretch them out another twelve hours?
Over the past few days, one acceptance and one rejection of poetry submissions. 240 pages of Little Dorrit (I'd forgotten the extent to which one needs to commit to Dickens, but also the extent to which it's easy to do so). Several ounces of sherry. Several coats of white paint. Window shopping on the internet (this bag, this dress, this wool, this book). Violin practice. Exercise. And my own sweater finished, now being blocked.
All must be put on hold, because in this interlude (smack in the middle of a pair of "clopen" shifts), the essential things are to clean up the kitchen, make myself pretty, and pack up some healthy food. We soldier on.
And oh. It is winter. -31 C degrees of it. I will probably pretend I'm Laura Ingalls on my walk to work.