After a four-day long weekend (which was at least too long by half): recovering (grounding? psychic cleansing?) through a full day of writing (considered my notes for a story and winced at starting the story but wrote it anyway, like pieces of a mystery, and kept writing it throughout the day until it was finished, saying to hell with it and took it to writing group that same evening where it went over well for a change, none of the eye-watering silence and half-hearted reach for comment) and a full day of drawing and painting (three new miniature paintings for cigar-tin stories, three new ink drawings for library card art, then two ink drawings on found and dyed paper, just because). At the end of the day I stood looking out the window at the falling snow. On the way home (good ol’ Chatham Street, like the raised skin from where they took out the stitches) I saw a guy drinking beer behind the submarine sandwich shop and lecturing his girlfriend in that grand manner where you get to point to the sky a lot, as if your hoodie was as good as any Caesar’s leaves.