I want fresh and cold and bite, I am craving that texture to my skin when it’s turned raw and rough. I want to walk quickly, bury myself in layers, feel that pang of oppression when I look out my kitchen window two minutes before leaving and see it’s pouring. I want to listen to the rain under the sheets with you, but the sky is a milky blue and that cream of cloud doesn’t look like it’s set to condensing anytime soon. It was such beautiful weather yesterday. I’m nervous. We need more rain. I saw a movie yesterday afternoon, the one with Brad Pitt and Sean Penn about death and babies and growing up, but it really should have starred Mother Earth and the Cosmos; there is a part where Sean Penn and a woman dressed in black business are walking around this spectacular house with so much glass and blonde wood, and it is cold and windy outside, the kind of day where everything has turned a silver haunting. I want that day, that weather. I want windy sharp, I want my words stolen from me, I want to hunt for gloves frantically. If not city rain, then, I want out-of-urban, for a horizon that isn’t littered with straight lines or a taupe smog haze, for a quiet that reaches inside of me unrelated to what time of day it is. I want to go to the snow. I want to go to the ocean in the headlands, or to the muir redwoods. I want a day set by the clouds overhead and the direction the path breaks apart. I want a vacation outdoors.