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Things always looked worse in the mornings. The unlovely light of winter mornings, the ruralness outside with no assurance of other life made the overnight snowfall look harsher. Yet the radio rarely declared a snow day despite the thick inches silencing the world further.

Our dad kept th(more)
  I have nothing to say tonight.  The machinery is not up to the task.  It's a personal snow day.  The brain is hanging fire. I want to tell you something, but can't, because I don't know what that something is. I once read that Robert Louis Stevenson wrote a 60,000 word novel(more)