| Yeah. I am always weary of puffy coats. People swear by them. My co-workers call them the sleeping bags with arms coats.
I have been wearing a wool-cashmere coat for five years out here. It's fine because I always wear a cardigan or sweater underneath.
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The fresh heartbreak was, in a sense, like being in a foreign country; everything seemed alien, brilliant and glinting. It was as if I’d been flayed, so that even the air hurt. When you’re that unhappy, any glimmer of beauty or consolation feels like running into an old friend abroad, or seeing mountaintops through smog. Maybe we mistakenly think we want “happiness,” which we tend to picture in very vague, soft-focus terms, when what we really crave is the harder-edged intensity of experience. | 
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