Day and night fight quietly for the sky. Every year they take the same turns pushing and pulling, oblivious that I stare at the horizon with a clock in view to make sure the sunken sun's milky rays -- quickly watered down with darkness -- linger a bit longer than yesterday.

I don't dislike the winter, it's just hard to move through stunted days that blink so rapidly into night. Warmth is a naked, gray abandoned thing. The post upon which I haul up the wilted good spirits is lost beneath snow. I slump. I fell asleep leaning against Jerry tonight after trying again with the dogs: sit, stay, down, stay, and around and around I went, without really understanding what these exercises are supposed to mean.

Later as I sit up and look at Jerry, I say, sorry…

Taking a little nap? he asks.

Why am I so tired?

I tell you all the time, you don't sleep enough, ever.

For some reason I remember my Vodka Days. We were living in Shelton and trading time between his house and my apartment. The second I opened the front door after work I grabbed a glass and went for the ice cubes. I passed out every night. Too many dark and depressed moods for too long -- like winter -- and I needed to shut my head off.

Someone said that the first day of spring was 51 days away. I grabbed the calendar from my desk, flipped to March and looked for the little italic letters saying, Spring Begins. I counted. Forty eight more days, but that was a day ago, before the ice encased us all and the sky kept dropping cold, slushy shit on our heads.

I'll meet with the trainer again soon. I hope to have a grasp of what I am doing, and some steps of progress accomplished by the time the snow melts. I