I always drink hot chocolate warm as a bold display of my own individuality. I use Sundays as an excuse to dress up for no good reason, and I buy flowers for the house once a week, usually alstroemerias; this is how I take after Mamma. I sleep nine or ten hours a day, eat vegetables out of season and generally walk on the wild side of life. My favorite sound is the sound of rain, and I strive to lead a slow (but not uneventful) existence in the heart of Boston.
Where I come from, there is no such thing as winter. I remembering thinking at the start of my first August in this city that November would see the piling up and drying out of all the life of summer, and I was so scared of the death of winter that that fall I collected leaves from every species of tree that lives in Harvard Yard and assembled them into a little collection for myself. I still have them, all carefully labeled and neatly ordered, and I did look over them during the winter, but I never really felt like I needed them. The quiet calm of snowy days here was the same one I enjoyed on rainy afternoons back home, and listening to the soft crunch of snow underfoot like the rain’s pitter-patter, it was as if no time had passed at all.