January 18, 2005

Dear Mr. Bush,

The snow swirled across the streets tonight in a way that made it seem like you weren't driving on pavement, but instead floating over a churning, angry cloud. The roads were hypnotic, the snow dancing across them in a come-hither rhythm that called to drivers like a siren to the ships of old. It made for a tense drive home that took twice as long as it should have, every car on the road taking it slowly and carefully (a rarity here in Chicago, to say the least). It was a drive that I would have liked to have avoided, having just worked a straight 12 hour day, never leaving the office even for lunch, my eyes burning from staring at words all day. It was made all the worse knowing that the entire day would be repeated tomorrow and the next.

To a break,



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