These days I must admit a certain glee to get into bed. Like, I am done for the night! Brain is off. There’s no more to be done. I gather my things (a stack of books, Kindle, water bottle), I put on my glasses and my night guard, I slink under the covers and turn on my heating pad. I might read a chapter or two and then find my eyelids blissfully heavy.

Is this… (butterfly meme) natural? Is this depression? Is this winter? Is this cozy? All of the above?

I’ve been trying to write, but I can’t or won’t finish things:

Expiration dates are also annoying. Like I’ll start writing something about “today” that becomes tomorrow that folds into the week after. The season, the moment is gone. You lose interest, that frisson of immediacy. Some details slip away. It’s like freezing leftovers that sit and gather frostbite until you forget them and then they completely shed any appeal.

But sleeping! Sleeping is great! I am reading a lot and still drawing and hope to write again soon.