Crime scene vibes down in Chalet 33

It is snowing for the second time in as many nights, drifting down across the street and the sidewalks and yards which thanks to the colorless streetlight are acquiring the appearance of a kind of undressed set. The first time I looked out, I hadn't thought that our street was so bare; I registered the flat pallor as plains of cement. Less welcomely and perhaps even more Patrick Hamilton, the snowmelt is dripping down into the chimney of the ex-fireplace in the dining room and plunking ceaselessly and drearily off some metal in the ducts of the forced air heating exactly as if we had set out a pan under a leak in the ceiling, except it isn't filling up and changing resonance at all. Objectively, we have been in this apartment not quite six years, but over the last two of them the flow of linear time as we know it went somewhat Buñuel and it feels a lot longer and slightly as though we will never live anywhere else, which considering that the majority of our possessions have been in storage since the fall of 2014 and this building has dramatically worsened my health I hope is not the case. I have had the experience of living somewhere, if the fireplaces don't work, at least they don't metallically drip. I think it was great.

Remind me to remember to forget that all ellipsis comes to a period

I was not bedridden for the last couple of months, but I spent far too much time in my apartment and I am still spending far too much time in my apartment. I did not manage to get out before sunset this afternoon thanks to the hold times of doctors' offices, but I did at least leave the house while there was still light in the sky.

( Count them up, the little murders. )

Perhaps tomorrow, who knows, some direct sunlight.