Outside, the snowfall is fast but light. From the blanket of white on the cars, one can tell how long it’s been snowing. Against this white is the aching orange glow of the sky, and the warm fluorescent street lamps. The blinds of the houses across the street are all closed and the lights are off.
City in a snow globe. Lifeless. Plastic. Shaken.
In the darkness of my living room, Emiliana Torrini sings to me about love in the time of science.
It shouldn’t hurt me to be free
It’s what I really need
To pull myself together
But if it’s so good being free
Would you mind telling me
Why I don’t know what to do with myself
It’s the last day of the year. The little clock on my screen tells me it’s six minutes to 2 a.m. I should be in bed, but this is the only chance I have to write.
Where did the time go? I thought I would be bored, or lonely, during the holiday stretch, only to discover that it wasn’t long enough.
They say that the days, months, years pass faster, the older you get.
Maybe this means I’m getting old.