New York City, February 14, 2016

★★★★ The morning was a number on a screen, a number too low to seem real. The number below it was fictitious and unnecessary. Near the end of the entry rug sat the heavy boots, rumpled and waiting. The sky was weak blue and all but empty. Outside — outside! — the parka hood crackled by the ears. The cold had edited the landscape: a whole cross street was devoid of pedestrians; the Broadway booksellers and their visible wares were gone, leaving only lumpy tarp-battened tables; the bins outside the supermarket were stripped bare of fruit and flowers. Nothing remained but dried fruits and nuts, and firewood, real and artificial.