There are clumps of snow dropping out of the sky. We’re not talking snowflakes here. They’re finger-sized, they fit in a cupped palm. They land heavily. The air isn't white: it's blotting paper. Maybe this is what a snowpocalypse looks like.
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- 1: So Krishna stole the butter, did he?
- 2: When I invited Frank and you back to mine for a mange tout when I meant ménage à trois
- 3: The shadows on the walls don't recognize me anymore
- 4: Well, you can't tell much from faces
- 5: This po-mo stuff is nice, but it's irrelevant to the way I feel right now
- 6: Be my hand on the oar to row to eternity
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