BY HAND

{honey dog on the old rag rug // the ample rump of a growing pair of little gal leggings // white pine, lemon, garlic // white pine, lemon, garlic + honey, in a warm spot // rye shortbread cookies // a newly finished flaum cardigan}

In favor of literally everything else, I have for the time being stepped away from the internet in its shortest form, picture+breezycaptionadinfinitum. I love the internet. I love all my dear friends I have found through the internet. But- better ways to say it escaping me - the internet is a god damn thief, and I don't love that. Time thief, joy thief, creativity thief, focus thief, and on and on. So here we are, in a self-imposed exile that has finished sweaters and rye cookies and me sitting down to write.

It's really nice. Quiet.

One of our dogs sits so close to the wood stove that her whiskers are singed. She lays on the hearth, head sometimes resting on the stove itself, and pants and pants and pants. We joke she would climb inside if we left the door open, never having found too much of A Good Thing. Sometimes I feel like that dog, lapping up internet heat- loving it loving it loving it, while it burns me up in a million different ways.