Slept deep and heavy, a full night, with warm blankets and soft bed and warm heat, and I am waking up to a crisp and beautiful fall morning, wrapped in a towel, waiting for the shower to be free, writing and smoking and drinking hot chocolate, and looking at my inorganic purple flowers in a tall rectangular glass vase, and looking at the more organic sand and seashells holding them in place, and loving my blue curtains and the way the light comes seeping through them, and gently, gently, everything glows and I feel alive and perfect and well.

I am thinking about New York and how I want to grab a peacoated and scarved young mediterranean looking man and walk its streets in the crisp, and breathe vapor trails and curl my tongue around my warm full vowels and curve my back up against his hand, and how he is up in Vermont, speaking of me in muted tones to whomever will listen, and I am here whispering to myself about him in my warm bed, and wishing to be in his.

Life is visceral in all the correct ways. I am watching my father die, and watching the world die around him, and watching things slowly crumble and the edges of reality slowly fuzz, to phosphenes as I squint my eyes into deep, deep sleep, the sleep you get after days of traveling, after nights spent burning candles at both ends, a heavy body in a welcoming bed.

And sleep, sleep.

My white walls do not seem cold or barren. I have a gold picture frame to even them out. My jewelry hangs from a window screen. The bind of my book is broken from well-use. My pen is out of ink. I am going to wear my blue dress today, with the lace flowers embroidered on the edge of the skirt. A deep blue, against my snow skin, and boots that don't match but are warm.

And the shower is free, and I get to wash off yesterday and begin today fresh.