Whirlwind couple of days.
Snow fell like dandruff from the chafing scalp of a less fortunate man.
There were filet mignon whispers with cabernet sauvignon dreams. And whip cream.
Aggregated sinuses and busy-bodied mall walkers.
A mere eight days dangle before our noses like hopeful morsels of holiday baking. Its December, and Christmas beckons.
Perhaps I’ve been time travelling. Maybe this was always the way it happened.
I digress. But not all it once. Slowly, like melting cheese.
The words are escaping me at the moment. To be fair, the cool-ranch adventures of Axel Foley are quite distracting.
Maybe tomorrow, there will come softer, more enticing rains.
Besides, the cornflakes are screaming again. And this time, its personal.