February 10, 2010
We are now several moons into the snow Armageddon as prophesied by the oracle Accuw Eather. We have exhausted our resources; no one for miles can deliver pizza, our DVDs are old and watched, and we cannot leave our quarters for fear of being consumed by the great White Beast before reaching Maile Boxe. No man dares to brave the wicked Hail. This place upon this hill, once so fair and good and perfect for outside barby-quews, is now a looming multi-roomed, heated, furnished, admittedly well-stocked prison. My mind and body are weak but my soul persists; it is only you that returns my consciousness to the Here and Now, and to the urgency of Living. I long for you. I fear I shall never return to Washingtonne to behold your beauty, leave alone attend to my papers on Hill Capitol. But if this icy Wrath doth end and Mother Nature's vengeful prerogative be fulfilled, I shall lay down my bottle of Dogfish Ale, take a short nappe, and emerge from this thawed dungeon as a spring flower blooms. For now, I have enclosed a painting below. I see only your face in the white.
Vue de la Park Ridge du Mont Rawlley
Clark's Burgh, Mary Land
Step into the rain: secondrain.blogspot.com