"My dear, I wish I had some whiskey and a gun, my dear."
We're back in this cold, overcrowded, dilapidated, crime-ridden cesspool known as Providence, Rhode Island. The trip went uneventfully enough. Rain, rain, rain, and rain. Which isn't unpleasant in Woodstock, but in Providence turns a turd into a wet turd. More of this weather tomorrow, and then we might see a few days of sun. Currently, 39˚F, though it feels like 31˚F. On April 8. Passing through the Berkshires and the even much farther east in Massachusetts, there were still frozen lakes and ponds. I very much tried to back out of going yesterday, at least delay it until I was working again. A night in the cabin and the forest did nothing good for me. It was wonderful, and sad, and added an extra touch of wretchedness to being here. Yeah, I know how I sound. I do. I honestly do. But this is not my world, and I've suffered it for seven winters, and, frankly, I'd just like a goddamn spring. No apologies.