New York City, March 24, 2015

★ The distressing undynamic March continued, more of the same, nothing but February with better lighting. Still a lump of snow was surviving under the shrubbery. Out on Broadway, there was no real shade, only different illumination schemes in the crisscrossing reflected sun. Hair gleamed. The best measure of the sun, though, was the grim chill on descending into the subway. Downtown, the masonry was as stingy with light as the the glass uptown had been generous. Crossing the street into the shadow brought on an involuntary wince. Down by the floor of the eye doctor’s examining room, a space heater displayed wobbly (and blurry) images of ersatz flames and coals. At bedtime, Little Miss Stubborn got on the wrong bus: “It went to Coldland. A country so cold that everybody has a cold all year round.”