Last night I looked out onto the parking lot and it seemed, with the yellow car lights and the eerie quietness, that snow had fallen. And I never thought I'd miss the snow and yet there it was in the field of my impressioned vision- for under the trance of impressioned vision I can make butterflies out of pictures of glass blowers and ivory towers out of cranes- and the thought was comforting and enchanting. Its the stillness of snow, and the solitude, and the tranquility, the separation of the senses from the vision, that makes snow so seductive. They tell me it is cold, but I do not feel that. I feel the rapture of the wind and I hear nothing because snow makes no sound. You can listen forever and the vibrations elude.
The ground was of course dry and it has yet to snow here. However, I have found a surrogate snow. It involves me pacing on the roof on windy and stormy nights, back and forth, with my palms open and my vocal chords contracting wildly between western tones.
You who know not the unbearable exhileration of aloneness, you who cannot appreciate abandoned churches with the sun shining gently on the altar, the fairy timelessness beneath weeping willows, the pitch of the wind in harmony with your voice- what then do you live for?