it's_a_mad_adventure fyn gula always. even if four inches of fresh powder, soft as white feathers we blow easily with breath usually reserved for kissing, impede our progress and slow down our steps. even when mercury doesn't rise, no matter how long we wish it would, as if the heat of our passionate longing to see green could push it upwards to at least 2o degrees, instead it falls to below zero again. 030121 what's it to you? who go blather from