Just come in from outside. It's snowing. Quite heavy snowfall. And i was looking at it come down, like...how do you describe it? It's -2 degrees. I am trying to describe what it is like. But i can't. what would wordsworth say? Would he break into spontaneous poetry? It's just keeps falling and when it falls on you, it's like some light feathery thing that almost tickles you. Look at it getting accumulated on the branches that seem to have been cleared of leaves especially to accomodate the snow. It looks like some kind of a fridge that doesn't have a frost- free. It's falling on my skylight and will soon cover it. I want to have a snow fight. But am here alone. The snow flakes catching in my hair. Everything i do i think of sharing the experiance with someone. Ask how does it feel? is it cold? What does snow taste like? Does it make a sound? I can't seem to keep my eyes off the glass door. I want to jump in it, make snow angels n snowmen. I could make a whole family of snow people. These exciting moments come with a back drop of loneliness. How cruel! But that's what John Keats says. Keats? I'm not sure, but the poet who wrote To A Skylark.