Snow.

That's the name of the Orhan Pamuk novel I'm intently reading right now; it's also the name for the frozen, hexagonal bits of water that have been falling from the sky this week.

I had forgotten that I had started to hate the cold. I used to love it. I could walk around in weather like this (30° Fahrenheit) without a coat (or sweaters!). But my tolerance has waned. Now the cold hurts me all over. I long for somewhere with milder weather year-round.

Snow-the-novel is hurting me a bit too, because it's heartbreakingly beautiful as a novel. It's hard to tear myself away from it. I'm reading slowly; I often read faster than this, but I don't want to miss a thing, or speed past something without having taken the appropriate amount of time to consider what it says.

As usual, I feel compelled to start something. The problem is that I feel this a lot, particularly when I'm in the middle of other things.

Beginnings are what I love best. That said: let's see it all through.

Even the winter. And the next. And probably the one thereafter.