"Winter mornings are made of steel; they have a metallic taste and sharp edges. On a Wednesday in January, at seven in the morning, it's plain to see that the world was not made for Man, and definitely not for his comfort or pleasure."
—Olga Tokarczuk, from the novel Drive Your Plow Over the Bones of the Dead
I listened to Tokarczuk speak and read on a podcast once and I've been meaning to engage with more of her work. I just came across this quote yesterday and found it fitting. (Also, that novel title though! It is strangely appealing, is it not? Or perhaps that's just more of my macabre side).
Wherever you are, I hope you are warm and safe.