I love driving north in the morning. Wisconsin is the quietly beautiful place that no one else knows about, and it just gets better as you approach Baraboo. Today, snow blows from left to right, but broken up by sun. Everything shines. The sun's behind me, Neutral Milk Hotel crouches over the steering wheel with me, the wetlands the fields the hills the trees all dusted white so they catch and reflect every small variation in the light. At Cascade Mountain, the snow machines are on full blast, powder rises like smoke above the trees, it's a god-damn snow inferno. I have a long day ahead and a tattoo appointment tomorrow about which I am nervous (say goodbye to this uniformly colored shoulderblade, this unbroken stretch of skin). I am behind on my rent, my first student loan payment is due on Christmas Day after the alleged end of my economic hardship. A kindly-worded poetry rejection in my e-mail inbox. On the radio, Anne Strainchamps interviews a woman about happiness, and a caller says, "I just smile falsely until I feel it."