I feel like I’ve been stuffed in an opaque envelope with cotton in my eyes.

January and February are inside with me.  A pair of cunning gray gloves that slither up and down and around my throat with gentle caresses, foreplay for their gripping stranglehold.

“Isn’t it supposed to be getting lighter?” I ask. 

A voice comes from the corner, mouth moving below dark bushy brows and burglar cap, “They say daylight savings time is like the man who cut off the bottom of his blanket and sewed it to the top.”

“Oh.”

So our feet are cold and our necks warmer, or in other words the beginning of the day is still dark — maybe even darker than in December — but the end is getting lighter. 

The days are stretching from the top.

So then, in this godawful bleakness, I can stretch from the top too? 

My art flows from the patterns & paths of my lived experience which ⏤ like yours ⏤ are at once deeply personal and entirely universal.

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