It's always raining somewhere.

A friend of mine wrote and described being snowed in and how he looks forward to it. The thought of being prepared to eat canned food and warm oneself by a kerosene heater and read by lantern light and type on a manual typewriter was enchanting to me. I want to run off to a cabin in the woods somewhere and experience stillness.

But only for a short while. I'll eventually go into withdrawal if I'm not asked to validate my parking ticket for days on end or if I haven't experienced the panic of not knowing whether I'm parked legally. The freedom becomes lonely. It would be like being banished to live on the moon.

Last week, there was one night it was so windy, I wondered if my windows would just blow in. The whole place was rattling and howling. It felt safe to be inside. It felt like refuge. That's when you drink hot drinks and stoke the fire and wonder where you put the board games. That's when you forget you ever have to go out again.

And now it's raining. Softly enough to make a tinkling sound on the windows. Quietly enough that I can hear the drops coming off the ends of leaves and splashing down on the shiny, wet pavement. I dream of nights like this.