Fat snowflakes swimming past my eyes. The world is wrapped up in snow.
Despair is always waiting with open arms but I don't look his way, not this time.
In the subway car I'm just one brick in a wall of solid flesh.
The dog got a haircut. Now when she stretches up on her hind legs to poke her nose over the edge of the table she looks part-canine, part-rodent, and part-pixie, with liquid alien eyes.
Conversations with people who have a gleam in their eye that tells me they're not really hearing me out, just waiting to pounce on what they expect to hear. Why should I talk, when they already know what I'm going to say?
Before reading comes pretend reading, where she turns the pages, recites the words she knows by heart, points out the pictures, and to all appearances looks as if she's reading.
I'm heading into new territory on unsteady legs, as if there's ice under my feet.