Pale, misty mornings are my best friend. Thus do I awaken in a nebulous blizzard. My thoughts, too, assume their form. For they are shaped by the same forces. The flow of my thought is as an avalanche, consuming all that lay in its path, turning it into a fine white powder. My crushed and powdered thoughts, trampled and stomped into hard bricks, serve as building blocks for my icy philosophy. Like an icy Midas, it freezes and stiffens all it comes into contact with. The cold palace of my mind is lined with many an icicle – beware, for they might fall and strike you with an idea!
