Halting in the frenetic thalamus of a Monday I recoil into my finery and fluff my mittens just to be sure.
Outside the wind is a yowling glamour of crystalline shuriken. searing into naked pink at a typhoons pace but with all the stalwart nostalgia- of a White Christmas you Slept through.
I open the Door and the air is Spring on Laughing Gas Like a Windmill in Don Quixote's Fan Fiction