The weather man says big things are coming, by evening an avalanche will likely occur though I live in a flat place where the few straggly hills are largely domesticated—he points to a map—snow, he says, snow will kill us all. He knows of course it isn’t true. But he can’t help it. Disaster 24-7 is what the producer wants and there was a bombing today in a schoolhouse and the snow must therefore be lethal. “Its killer snow,” he says, looking like a scribe, an ancient keeper of scrolls, who has written a doleful note in the margin. I want to tell him I love the snow, that the world doesn’t end, but in these electronic dark ages the best you can do is blog.
Planet of the Blind 