Slippers worn both day and night. Pancakes for dinner. Books bricked up over the windows. A stroll to the mailbox “for exercise.” A shower is exotic. Scraps of notes next to the computer. Dog slogged out 22 hours a day on the bed. Three old cars outside, each broke in a different way. A roaring fire even on fifty degree days. The clocks all an hour off. Outside, the dreary winter beauty of the wetlands.

“I never want to see anyone, and I never want to go anywhere or do anything. I just want to write.” P.G. Wodehouse