Eighth floor, big window overlooking the clutter of too much traffic, human and not. Construction on a building in the distance, and the ground in front is covered in filmy, almost transparent plastic. I spend whole days up here thinking of leaving, not leaving, wanting to leave, looking out the window instead, rarely talking to anyone else. Each time I see the building out there, see that pale glint of almost white on the ground, my heart pauses, falters. Every time I am tricked into thinking sometime in the day, while I’ve been trapped in this cubicle, snow has fallen. I know it’s not far off now, those long, long nights and bitter days. I have always dreamed of finding an eternal summer, a place where there is little darkness and much light and life. A place defined only by the warmth of the landscape and of the people who live there. Three times today I was tricked. Three times (and more) that I’m dreaming of a place where there is no snow. Not here. Not yet.