I fear that those who are already tired of the snow are not paying attention.

You know, a snowstorm in these parts is like a torrid affair—rare, debilitating, and fleeting.

When it comes, you hardly expect it. It starts small, like a thing that won't grab hold. Improbably, it starts to stick, and with it accumulates the mysterious perfection you know can't last. If you can comprehend just how ephemeral it is, you embrace it fully. You let yourself become the protagonist on the bare stage.The world quiets, others disappear; every other thing recedes into the pale.

It is inconvenient; you're late or you don't show up at all. You stay in where it's safe, but you go out too—for sustenance, for play—and when you do it's to the same old places but with a wonderland's permission to excess.

When it starts to feel like too much, you still dread the inevitable end. You can't give it up so you venture farther, venture longer, knowing deep down that a part of you relishes the coming thaw because the only way it can stay perfect is if it dissolves, and dissolves quickly.

I was out last night on Pike sitting at Quinn's people-watching. Some club-goers and a constant stream of Santas from somewhere. It was very festive! Sometimes the motion on the street lapsed into snowball fights.

It's funny when hipsters have snowball fights. They keep the lit cigarettes in their mouths, the little red ends provisional running lights, as they chase in circles pounding each other with snow, turning their black gray and setting the studs asparkle.

Was out till about midnight, and then walked home in like six inches of snow. Above 12th, all was blanketed and the streets were deserted. At BTG a faint oontz-oontz-oontz breached the big metal door and permeated the thickening silence. On top of the hill people had gathered and were drunken-sledding. They had couches and tires, cardboard and the long advertisements attached to the sides of buses.

God it's beautiful!