When I go outside, I can feel the cold air inside my head.  And it makes coming in entirely nice – warmth, and Christmas decorations, and everyone alive in perhaps a different way than usual because it is cold and this is finals week. 

A week ago, or more, someone sat in the rocking chair under my window and sang Christmas carols at midnight.  “Silent Night,” to the squeak, squeak of the chair.  She didn’t know, I suspect, that I could hear her. 

I asked someone at the copy machine today to exchange a nickel for my five pennies, but she gave me a dime and refused my coins.  Which was nice of her.

All the library books I’m not supposed to be reading right now exert an irresistible force over me.  But I don’t mind it much.

I finished Housekeeping, but before we leave it entirely, this: “For why do our thoughts turn to some gesture of a hand, the fall of a sleeve, some corner of a room on a particular anonymous afternoon, even when we are asleep, and even when we are so old our thoughts have abandoned other business?”  What are all these fragments for, if not to be knit up finally?” -Marilynne Robinson

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