2015

The new year enters in permafrost. I drove down to friendly faces in the valley last night, and the sunset turned snow and sea and sky the same blue shade of ice. It was so beautiful I nearly had to pull over to catch my breath.

My grandmother writes illegible notes in her journals from 70 years ago. She finds such joy in the simple treasures, even then, but her every hope revolves around the magical cure-all of love. She is 19, who can blame her.

The new year lies ahead, like a blank slate with brain stormed ideas in the margins. The possibilities are so vast before reality steps in. You sharpen your pencil.

Set about writing the script.