Last night I dreamed about vampires and the Joker. Gotham stinks in the summertime; it was built over a swamp. I could never see the Heath-Joker's face; he was always walking away from me doing card tricks in his right hand, but I could tell it was him because I was just so excited by the outfit. Also, because of all the murders. The vampires hung out on the edge of the bayou, visible only by their glowing eyes, watching the Heath-Joker circle the empty hallways of Wayne Manor, looking for Alfred. I/Bruce was not at home.

Winter is displeasingly intangible. A few weeks ago Sarafina and I had opportunity to hug in public without a thick layer of overcoats and sweaters between us; the flush of actual tangible contact was shocking simply because (we met in November) we'd never actually done that before. Everything in winter is several saran-wrap layers away from being something you can actually lay hands on; it takes ten minutes to put on enough gear to go for a walk, and when you walk, you can't feel the ground. In place of gooey sweat pouring down your skin you have the layer of heated air created by hair standing on end. Even indoors - there's so much gear everywhere right now, all over my desk, all around me. Heavy backpacks, heavy boots, heavy headphones. A month from now I'll be flyin'.

I think I should like to go travelling, sometime this spring.