(no subject)
this is northeast ohio. the snow muffles all sound, but i still have trouble sleeping. on monday, haruki murakami turned sixty years old. his books are my favorite in the whole world, yet i have less to say about them out loud than i do about any other book. i am learning to draw the feeling, though; all of those cold kitchens come from that distant place. my wish for myself is that i really learn how to slow down. everything is only as tedious as i make it. i should learn to love everything that i do, because i'm doing it, and it's me.