It's my birthday, and I'm a disaster. I'm searching for things to say.

I woke up this morning, wanting to see the sunrise in the beautiful small-town Maine eighteen degree-darkness.

I breathed out fog and watched sleepy houses, my fingers screaming for mittens, as I laid on the salted tar. I thought about everything.

Cars drove by slowly, and I was reminded of life here, and how slow it is.  

In this world, time drips on like molasses. Time wanders through pine groves and iced-over rivers, through quiet streets and underneath clotheslines. It is never overwhelmed. It's able to bask in moonlight and live comfortably. It's dependable.

When you walk around these places, you can see the ghosts everywhere. It's like coming home.