They’re calling it a “Saskatchewan screamer,” this weather system moving across the Tennessee Valley.
There’s an old Roman maxim that fear gave birth to the gods.
There’s a waxing gibbous moon and omicron everywhere. Ronnie Spector died today.
Another frigid and atmospherically pointless day without any snow. My brand new cassette tape arrived.
Wind chills in the single digits and still no snow. If I’m not paying attention, I can push commas around for hours.
The grey skies of January continue, the moon is in its first quarter, and I bought a tiny telephone.
I woke up wondering if I would live my life any differently if I measured my age in days or hours instead of years.
At a meeting in a church basement, I encountered a fine collision of the sacred and profane.
Temps in the teens and a light coating of snow. Time gets funny when you start losing people.
In the far corner of the library, an elderly man sighs over a big dusty book of trees.
Writing about online living feels tacky for some reason, even though it might be the only thing we have left in common.
While I wasn’t paying attention, my life became gamified into metrics and streaks.
The first day of the year, and there’s a new supermoon tonight. I tried my best to feel fresh and brand new for these first hours of 2022.
These blurry days between Christmas and New Year’s Eve stand outside of time.
Last night we scattered into the dark, where the streets were empty except for drunks and insomniacs, the penitent and devout.
