I need to remember this love for when the Great Bookwinter comes, and we are grinding down extraneous prepositions to make flapjacks and burning twists of adverbs in the woodstove. For when we must make do, and not make happy.
I wish we could preserve happiness--just stuff it in a sterilized jar and pressure cook the hell out of it, then put it on a shelf to guard against the day when there's only the dry toast of the spirit to eat.
Or... well. Maybe we can. Maybe we do. Maybe that's what this post is.