Three feet of snow fallen already; it's a cold nuclear winter year, without the itch.

I’m exhausted and hoping it's just a transitional side-effect of living in Wisconsin, where these winters, I say without hyperbole, try to kill everyone who sets foot within them. The winters here are Italians, and snowflakes are their kids. You melt one, you in trouble, Paisan.

I miss the susurrus of the ocean, and the scent.

I miss the sand of the sea.

I miss the sun.

2/13

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