Why do some people call it Rome and others call it Romania?

Faint alarm of a watch chirps a humble wake up. A chilly breeze wanders the room warmed by the aimless heater. Attention. Out the window, a stream of snow not warm enough to be rain danced horizontally with rain not cold enough to be snow. The morning matured as did the snowfall. Precipitation pauses premeditated plans.

Instead of hands wreaking from raunchy trash, at the end of the day now blisters, bruises, and blood mar the mitts frozen to the chisel and hammer. I love labor that I can look at.