I wish I could write.

The winter presses up its face against the window, and even with the thermostat set to 78 degrees, I can’t pretend its not there. Seeping in through the ducts, fissure cracks, and musty screens that should have been replaced years ago.

I wish I could write better. I wish I could be Ellen Gilchrist for a day, writing about dreams and sad old actresses, about people trying to impress one another with how sane they are. I wish I could write.