Acts of hope.

Sometimes hope doesn't make any sense at all. And that might be when it's most important.

When I sit down at the piano these days, I find that I can't get up within two hours. I will sit over one piece for a good 30 minutes, then turn to one of the others for another 30 minutes, then spend another large chunk of time on Bach. The Three-Part Inventions are startlingly beautiful. Though I'm only focusing on No. 15, I couldn't help myself this afternoon and picked my way through No. 11 as well. To my ear, it's the most haunting of all of them.

While we ate dinner at a nearby Indian restaurant we'd never tried, the atmosphere thickened and blurred; by the time we left, fog had settled over the town, the spires, the river, the lights--all haloed, all held. I am swearing this: I will pry myself out of bed early enough tomorrow to see how the frost coats and covers every inch of this place that has become my own. Tomorrow, see, is a day of readying.