Dear diary : A succession of below zero blizzard days and mid50s rain and fog extravaganzas - I prefer the latter because ryan and I bundle into scarves and brave the bus into town to look at glassware for our lost-boys friendly cave, and take long, bewildering walks through the streets at night to admire the reflection of the streetlights in the liquid pavement and pink tangerine clouds rolling overhead like ominous prologues to party horror zombie movies. The streets echo dead back at us and the mist sucks at our feet as we point out the sharp silhouettes of nests in the dead branches around us. Back at home I make a myriad of rainbow sprinkle food, pancakes and cocoas, to the background of jason lives while ryan stretches in the mirror beside me. The wind howls in the grate of our fireplace chute in the stereotypical way I've heard in films. I sand clay dolls into form, knit away at sweater work, while ryan strums his guitar in the dark corner of the studio, creating the tiny sounds of post 90s grunge that still hides in the spaces of his calloused fingers and guitar strings and makes me long for bill and ted, or recalls a brief obsession with blood, sugar, sex, magic that marked an era of my life. It's like two years of perpetual 1997 summer break. There is the occasional smoke that culminates in too much laughter or bewilderment or split screening shooters where i throw grenades at ryan in friendly fire (I cant help flirting with him, even when we play resident evil).