I keep coming up with small things to say. It is dark here, very, but the lights are still on, for now at least. There is a sound like rustling pages outside, and the intermittent tapping of rain as gusts pick it up and hurl it at the windows and walls. I imagine what it would be like under the roof in Maine (deafening, scary) and wonder why I should feel any safer here with drywall between me and the water (I do). With fingers of wind lashing through the weatherstripping, it almost feels like Maine. The house still breathes. The heat switches on, the air through the vent erasing the sounds of rain with rushing white noise. Candles have appeared on several of the tables, reminding me that there is still a long way to go.