This is no night for grading essays.
This is a night for low light and music like Cosmo Sheldrake's playlist, which I'm only two songs into, but I trust the rest will be good too.
Winter is when this feeling comes upon me most strongly.
This is a night for pumping legs on the swings til my hands burn and smell like rust and I fling myself skyward and burst into sparks.
This is a night for drifting slowly back to earth and falling asleep in a field near a thicket of birch trees.
This is an electric snow night. A red cheeks glow night.
This is a night to ache with being alive.
This is a heavy footfalls cracking through the top layer of snow that was semi-melted in this afternoon's sun and has refrozen now, so that it kafrumps kafrumps with each step night.
This is a night to wake up with a whiskey voice without having had a drop.
I will twist and pull my hair and pin it to my scalp in vile configurations and relish the discomfort of it.
And I will grade these damn essays.
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