Diane Simmons
As has been too common lately, I’m under a blanket in a sweatshirt in front of the fireplace penning this letter to you. That’s fine in the winter, but it’s June. My husband walked by me and said ‘we’re getting our winter aren’t we?’ I snarled something unprintable back and tucked the blanket in around my cold feet. It’s gray, and the wind is howling. I’m tired of it, you’re...
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