The ColdTMore Like This
oday, I woke to the sound of rain.
In the loft where we sleep, there is a series of six windows encircling one corner, creating a large, panoramic view of the suburban street corner on which we live. Normally, we are assaulted by the light of a clear blue sky, sunlight pouring in happily and obliviously turning the loft into a giant oven which, coupled with the fact it’s halfway through October and we feel it should no longer be so warm out as to cause an uncomfortable amount of sweating while indoors in an unheated room, usually is not terribly pleasing to us.
Alternatively, we can leave the windows open. The temperature of mornings in the loft is improved, but in place of that slowly growing discomfort that ever so gradually lurches through morning bleariness until you’re filled with a horrible alarmed awareness that, if you don’t get up now, you may very well bake to death, there is traffic. Never-ending, constant traffic. Honking h