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March 2, 2004
Winter slowly bleeds into springtime - the overcast skies subtlety taking on a lighter shade of grey; the morning breeze which whips off the Hudson mellowing from biting frost to a more muted chill; the quality of light in your room when the alarm blasts you into consciousness, each day imperceptibly shifting towards the golden glow of summer. The air smells of fog. You may live in Harlem but it still smells like childhood in Oregon, like wet grass and pre-dawn walks with the dog and a walking stick, pant legs heavy with dew, the sky heavy with anticipated rain.