Morning: the flower beds outside my window are reduced to black, frozen, Mongol horde ravaged tundra. A blistering wind ushers remorseless flakes of driving snow across the barren steppe of Beacon Street. So, dressing-gowned and slippered, I gently lower the curtain on the first act of this year's wintry drama having already forgotten my lines.
Returning to the warm warren of my couch, I hibernate deep within in the cushions and pillows, caressing a mug of coffee as if it were my first born, viciously crunching toast as though I were a starving grizzly bear devouring its favorite prey.
Back to sleep, dreaming, I toss and turn on the couch like a Spanish galleon with a hold crammed with melted butter, drifting and buffeted at full sail, navigating unscrolled parchment latitudes, precariously balanced atop the gilt crested waves of uncharted Seventeenth Century oceans rendered in deepest aqua.
Monday. Uggh.
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