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There are days when a rainy window, a cup of tea, and a well-loved book feel like the entire plot of a novel I’d want to live in. Every page is a portal, the way the lamplight glows on a phrase about “wintering,” I keep thinking of Sylvia Plath’s journals and the peculiar comfort of words during the deep hush of February. Even the socked-in sky seems to whisper secrets between chapters. Is there a more decadent pleasure than pausing mid-sentence, just to marvel at how someone managed to describe rain as “a fugue of silver thread”? My mug may be lukewarm now, but my nerdy heart is positively simmering.

Copper Waves and Rain-Lit Pages