Lately, I've been thinking about the possibility that comes with each new season as a way of understanding what might be possible at the dawn of each new day, in its full array a beautiful cycle of darkness and light and a microcosm of our lives at their peak potential. This weekend has been utterly magical, in the coziest and most charming, and promising of ways. Friday night, two friends, endearingly smitten with each other, came over for dinner and brought with them the glorious abundance of a freshly-baked pie and very thoughtfully chosen digestifs. All evening was a wonderful exchange of ideas and enthusiasms, and at one point, I brought up Caresse Crosby's memoir of bohemian-heiress-Paris, and had to read the first few sentences aloud, although it's the very first that I think of most often: "I'll never forget the day I was born -- born to myself, that is." Last night I took the subway, which I've decided to favor in lieu of taking cars everywhere, so that I may work less, and went out to dinner at a Himalayan restaurant that adjusted my thinking in all the right ways, and reminded me of many beautiful memories. This morning, I declared my intentions early on: to spend the day in bed, and so I have. Tonight, another dinner party with friends uptown. Tomorrow, more. Later this week, London, and then...?