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I am UmberDove.

And by that, I mean an artist.  One who hears stories in the wind, who paints because it is what her soul tells her to do, who smiths because the muse moves through her fingertips, who loves nothing more than the promise of an unexplored trail, the sound of the ocean in her ears, and scent of a serious cup of coffee.


Cold SNAP!


There's a strange thing happening out here in ol' North Bend. I think people call it acclimating. I walk out in the mornings, into this wild cold-snap, where "warm" temperatures of 3o degrees are apparently laughable, and watch the patterns of my breathing trace thought bubbles in the sky. My fingertips looked ruddy and chapped, matching my lips, but there is something about that slap of icy air that keeps me coming back for more. I think I kind of like it.

ALSO: Pay no mind to the small vermillion stick in my freeze-dried fingers. It is most certainly not anything that rhymes with "dead ticklish" and even more certainly not something completely devoid of all nutritional value. It's probably just a stick, and a trick of the winter lighting making it appear reddish because I would never be caught with a guilty secret stash of licorice hidden behind the rice cakes and nutella that BC doesn't even know about and that I would sneak in the solitude of bachloretteish afternoons (if, of course, such a thing even existed). So keep moving, nothing more to see here.