It’s not fitting, nor is it irrelevant, that Bach’s “Air” shuffles its toes onto my speakers while it snows for the third day.

Winter is not so depressing as it is embracing, a translucent, corked vial of emotion and thoughtless haze. I’m not sad, per se. It’s bright outside. What little light shines through the clouds reflects with ease off of the snow. The white slats of the blinds give off a bold reflection, lighting the high ceilings, sparse white walls, and light-hued wood floors, made of a wood that I don’t know, and don’t really care to know. Craftsmanship has never interested me, and wintry apathy has done nothing to redirect my interests.

I’ll go earn money now and you most likely won’t. I’ll greet 150 bodies and you’ll greet 150 commercials. I’ll sanitize a gray-speckled beige counter and a rubber belt and you’ll wipe the salt off of your orange fingers, and then you’ll make fun of me because I wrote this.