Snow is not an old coat that NYC pulls on and wears comfortably. For a city that moves at the speed of the rabbit rather than the turtle and never stops, snow is anathema - it slows everything.
And yet all I can do is compose the following letter;
Dear tear ducts,
I'm aware of your bizarre propensity to moisturize my face whenever temperatures start to dip below forty degrees (although I strain to understand it and have never reached enlightenment). But it's snowing. Don't you think there is enough frozen liquid around here?
No love,
The person you're attached to who you're possibly trying to murder with impaired vision.
No comments:
Post a Comment