I 🖤 Washington, and yes, the heart is black, because nine months a year so is the sky. This is love with seasonal affective disorder. This is the feeling of standing at a bus stop in a 48 degree mist that technically isn't rain, so nobody owns an umbrella, so everybody is just quietly damp from October to July. You love it here. You also haven't seen direct sunlight since a sporting event you'd rather not discuss.
It's the state where a fifth espresso shot counts as a personality, where the mountain is either "out" or a rumor, where people apologize for merging and then refuse to let you merge. The black heart isn't sadness. It's moss. It's commitment. It's an entire population silently flexing on the rest of the country about rainfall totals.
Cut from soft, substantial fabric that holds its shape through drizzle season and the three warm weeks in between. Comfortable enough to live in, built to survive a laundry cycle without pilling into a dish rag.
