I spent most of yesterday in bed, fighting anxiety and black rage and blacker depression, trying not to hear the wind battering at the house. The wind was a monster, all day, all night.
Today, I have to stay out of bed long enough to get Sirenia Digest No. 143 pulled together and out to subscribers. I'm already four days late. But that's all I'm asking of myself.
This morning, I put on the spacesuit and went downstairs and outside for about five minutes, probably less. In the night, some lunatic took a snowblower to sidewalks in this part of the neighborhood. They were at it for hours. I assume they're holed up somewhere today nursing frostbite and wendigo bites. The roads looks like a solid sheet of ice.
Ten years of this shit, and it just keeps getting harder. Hope, my ass. Hope is a goddamn train ticket to Birmingham.
11:36 a.m. (this morning)