Yesterday I made chicken soup and watched three kinds of television with Teenage Head Cold Monster until he finally fell asleep on the couch. Today I will edit, and stare aimlessly out the window at the snow, and worry about the sheaf of rejection letters I've just received, and then forget about them, and wonder who in the world is thinking of me, which may sound like a plea for a comment from you but isn't really. It's more like: do I exist or not? do you exist or not? are we chainsawed stumps in a mangled forest that is slowly vanishing under the snow? or will those sharp crocus leaves poke up through the frozen slush after all? Just the usual dreamy late-winter rhetoric. You know.