I blew smoke rings into your alleged beauty, “alleged” because everyone believes it but you and me. On the other hand, if you turned up anytime this winter with your hair piled on top of your head like the Acropolis and other official wonders, I would get down on my knees just to honour the immense fiction of our understanding. O absent fiat of my dead dog, come back to this neutral holiday. I am drunk on everyone’s defeat and full of self-congratulations to be a friend of the snow.