I’m stuck in bed today, tired from coughing. Croaky-voiced. Re-reading Ansel Adams’ autobiography and dreaming of great snow-capped mountains. I catch a glimpse, through the dirty window, of a white-blanketed roof and try to make do. Persuade me that there is no difference on the scale of majesty, and I’ll be impressed.
Words to the wise: On gloomy days, imagination is the best tool of all.