Swingle Singers on the box, spiced beef stew with rice on the stove, fire going on the hearth.... I don't pretend to know what womb-memory is tickled by the knowledge that it's snowing buckets outside and I'm warm inside, far, far removed from anything and anyone I don't love, but tickle away, say I. Give me a snowstorm, plenty of firewood and food, and I care not who makes the nation's laws.
(Let's see if I feel this way if I can't get out of here in three days...)
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