When the mailroom clerk brought around that day's deliveries, in amongst the bills and magazines was an altogether different sort of envelope. It was a shiny, shiny emerald green, and when it was tilted this way and that in the light, it turned to silver and to deep blue. My name was scrawled across it, not the crabbed scrawl of a ball point pen nor the calligraphic scrawl of a wedding invitation, but something resembling the feather-nib scrawl of the signers of the Declaration of Independence. It was ink, and it was both formally scripted and somehow imperfectly written. There was no return address.
The toaster project : or A heroic attempt to build a simple electric appliance from scratch / Thomas Thwaites.
The night circus / Erin Morgenstern.
those deep cold days of the young year