It is March 1st and Snow is Falling.

So, it's Sunday morning and roughly quarter past nine. It is cold cold cold outside, and light snowflakes are coming down in dozens. I'm locked out of my new apartment, oops. I tried a window and a reluctant cellphone call, but they were to no avail. So, instead of sleep it's back to coffee again. And blogging.
I'm back in Worcester after my trip to Victoria, BC. I enjoyed enjoyed myself. I can appreciate life there, despite the tourism, high prices and general fanciness. Not every city needs to be a dirty post-industrial underdog to be worth anything, remember? I need to tell myself this on occasion.
I moved to a new house. It's a messy apartment with friends. People and seemingly hundreds of mice inhabit this apartment, unlike my previous place which was in essence only occupied by memories, artifacts, and two cats which I feel awful about being such a bad friend to. I'm so so so glad to finally have escaped the eerily quiet and dark squalor. I returned after an epic cross-continent trek via van, airplane, another airplane, bus, train, and foot and found the apartment half-empty and half-gutted. My housemates have fled, and I haven't spoken to either of them since. I began to triage my sundry items and determine any worth, but in a hurried, curiously panicked way. I had been yearning to relocate for months, but at the moment it all felt so overwhelming. The electricity was shut off for no discernable reason and one could find the author sobbing in the dark, trying to pry posters off the walls and feeling utterly cut off from the world. Far from a graceful and tactful strategic withdrawal into a new living situation like I had hoped and expected, this felt as disorganized and pitiful a retreat as possible. I gave up and spent the rest of the day aimlessly outdoors, tail between legs. I popped in to M. Fox's place and he made me feel better. I tried again and got everything situated over the next few days, and 12 Vale Street is as good as buried as far as I'm concerned, and for the better.

The snow is coming down in hundreds. My bottom lip is chapped and cracked. Sister Hazel is playing on the radio. Remember that song? I recall being infatuated with it and the album it was featured on when I was in middle school. Guitar solo. I guess it's a CD as it's skipping. Or it's a weird, terrible remix. The girl working is complaining about her high school English class rather loudly. Boring poetry assignments, right? I suppose that I can relate.
I do love Sunday mornings. The quiet of the city is of a very comforting sort. I can find some peace in it. I feel that that is what I may need the most. Perhaps I've simply been looking in the wrong places.