Last time, the time before, I spent a good few sentences throwing my weary arms up about the never-ending nature of January, and now, it seems that I can begin to look at those thirty-one days from over my shoulder, safely, barely.I think it will require a few weeks of distance; many of the people I know have felt fairly battered by January—a storm of the beastly sort, weather managing to get in through closed windows, or a dust that will not settle, able to see the shadows which grace everything, straining to notice the earlier and earlier rising of the sun, its later sinking; imperceptible, almost. Over-thought thoughts, under-thought thoughts, both of these seemed to saturate the beginning of this year—people attempting to orientate themselves amidst the heavy, complicated events shown to them, the ones they open the door to, that need to be lived alongside.