March dawned drear and chill. A howling wind irritated the storm windows into insistent rattles and whipped tree branches into a silent dance of evasion.
The writer trudged wearily through heavy, rain-pocked snow. She glanced back towards her house. Streetlights were still glowing, in spite of the sun's imminent arrival.
It was a good morning for sleeping, she thought. I just need to sleep.
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