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- The hoar frost continues today. Oh man do I live in a postcard. It's ridiculous: fog, which burns off during the day to reveal: sky, blue with nice beautiful little clouds. A bit of mist sticks to the hills, flies around enough to make it dramatic and mysterious. Trees: white with hoar frost, all day. You look up: white frosted branches and needles with the backdrop of the beautiful blue sky. Again, the hills are white glowing ghosts. Snow, frost, sunshine. Moon. Icy river. It's ridiculous. I walked to school - I ran part of the way, I was running a little late - this morning and panted on myself. Went into the bathroom before class and saw that my breath had frozen onto my face, coated the fine hairs on my face with my own personal hoar frost. In indie rock news, there's this oh so perfect thing... oh so perfect. Perhaps, perhaps, perhaps I have to use it and... what? Email? Chat? He is not online so it will be email, I suppose. [Whiny paragraph deleted.] Here's a nice plan for tonight, seethe with jealousy at it: get into bed and read about the syntax of Old English. I'm tired. I wish I had an Atari.
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