SHE READS TOO MUCH AND IT HAS TURNED HER BRAIN
Sitting in a brightly lit café, facing the window, watching the snow fall. Above it whips furiously past the coronaed streetlamps, below it floats whisper-quiet, plumping the pillows already prepared by earlier snow. The snow is bright white and it gleams in places, where the crystals catch the light and throw it back. Occasionally one of the flakes comes to rest just so; the light catches and reflects against a tiny crystal star. Often, I feel about snow the same way I feel about traveling to the Antarctic. I’m fascinated by it, and could look at it endlessly (or read...