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  • There is snow on the ground and finally it looks like it's here to stay, for a few days at least. It also means that I'm less and less inclined to venture outdoors. That in turn means that I spend far too much time in front of the television. Oh well, winter has come, it was about time.

    Ithaca, New York. The first time I came here I got in during the worst snowstorm of the year (last year, if you must know, sometime in March). And now I've moved in for a good few years. I have a talent for picking great places to live, don't I? Edge-of-nowhere, Pennsylvania to Middle-of-nowhere, New York. But I suppose that after twelve years of tropical heat I can take a few rough winters. And at any rate, I'll take the cold over the heat. Someday I suppose I'll end up in California, but till then I'll try to enjoy wearing my snow boots and my winter jackets. Adapt to survive and all that.

    It's a few degrees below freezing outside. It's nice and warm inside. There's an incandescent light pointed at my right shoulder. There's some random electronic music mix being piped through the speakers by an aging, but ever faithful thought machine. There's a glass of almost flat soda on the table in front of me. There's a mess of papers, loose change and clothes in my room. All the comforts of modern living in one of the richest countries in the world. Life is good.

    Is there a point to this story? I don't know. I don't think so. I don't even know if this counts as a story. Maybe some randomized introduction-prologue-autobiography-pictorial-essay. Does it even really matter? I know we're supposed to be telling the story of humanity, but for now I'm perfectly satisfied just telling my own story, if that. And right now all that I care about is that Winter has come.
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