Feeling cut off in this house in Atlanta. It's dark and quiet, and I'm often the only person here, and the streets around it are dark, and the restaurant owner told me my card declined, and then I found out he charged me twice, and the men I asked for directions laughed after I closed the door, and the air itself is hostile somehow, like it's getting me ready for Russia, it's telling me, "This is nothing, you softie, you've been sitting at home for too long. This is but a taste of what's to come." And it's true. I'm not used to hostility anymore, I did indeed grow soft among my stories and books. And I'll have to grow thick skin fast. Leaving for Russia in two days, back into the darkness and the gloom and the snow.