What if the very reason you were created was to be creative?

What if, as an act of worship, creating something meant healing and restoration took place instead of pain and frustration?

There are two gradations of cold that are always acceptable: Mild Frost, which is preferable for reading and writing and any other activity done indoors, and Absolute Zero, which is the only temperature suitable for sleep. There is nothing more delicious than being swathed in a cocoon of blankets and awaking with a nose frosted over with rime, and once I do achieve vampiric heights and fall asleep with the mastery of a corpse lately dead, I am best left alone until I wake up at my usual time. I do tend to bite when rattled out of my flocculent coffin, and everyone in my building knows never to disturb me during the early morning hours. Authors, being crepuscular creatures, should never be roused before 11am: the creative mind is never turned off; it only dies momentarily and its revived by the scent of coffee at the proper time.

Bacon is also an acceptable restorative.

At first, we need to house survivors in non-residential housing, we need rental properties, or empty apartments.

We don't know exactly how many are coming yet, but we want to make sure we can take care of all of them and not have to send some back with false hopes.

Writing is like breathing -- it is necessary for my survival.