Just Pixels

I came out of work, circa 9 p.m. and wondered why my body heat was escaping me like blood from a terminal wound. The dry air heaved densely into my chest, momentarily freezing surrounding tissue on each of its dark descents.

I pondered this respiratory assault keenly, wondering its origin and stern intensity.

Then, I happened upon a lowly thermometer, keeper of mercury's soothsaying and read the numeral utterance:

TWENTY FOUR BELOW ZERO.

Egad. Bloody cold, my chillens.

So, I brushed off the snow from my pious windshield that so faithfully bore the ice scraper onslaught while my mitts neared serious frostbite.

Still getting a grip on this real winter stuff, it seems, Jemima. A whole different ballgame, to be certain.

And I miss my 4Runner. Observation would have it that the White Wolf isn't so keen in 12 inches of snowfall on poorly plowed streets.

Perhaps Mr. Sandman also has a few spirit-warming nightcaps in his bag of dreamy tricks...