Here in Providence, we're having a heatwave. It's 47˚F. But that's okay. Tonight the temperature is dropping to 11˚F. Tomorrow's high is forecast for 20˚F, with a "RealFeel" of 7˚F. I ought to get dressed and go somewhere, anywhere, because the remainder of the week is a cold, grinding hell. I want to just start boxing stuff up and move the fuck out of the northeast. Leave and never look back. This winter has been harder on my mind than has any before it. Or, fuck that, I'd settle for a bus ticket to Miami.
Yesterday I wrote 904 words on the story I will not be titling "Shutter." Tedious, precise work.