I live in a temperate country that is sometimes cold and often warm, which makes me romanticise harsh winters. I wish I could sit in my room without having to switch on the fan. Its whirring is relentless and I imagine snowy afternoons to be pitch-quiet. Are they?
Old books seem like photographs of birthday cakes gone by. It’s difficult to remember what happened, but you know something did. I would like to read something every week, and write about it. A little note on tissue paper, or an unexpected cry in the dark, whatever may happen. But don’t let the books drift again. Mark them down, catch them.