A part of which world dotdotdot

I'm laughing, only on the outside
My grin is only skin-deep
If you could share with me my thoughts for but a moment
Perhaps you'd join me, for a weep

So what's interesting about that? Perhaps two things. One that the very moment I finished typing it my MP3 player ran out of power. And two, that it isn't by me, and is just slightly modified in the way that I best remembered it. Tell me, have you ever danced with the devil by the pale moonlight?

On Purple Clouds

A thin line appears, that seems to spread across my field of vision. It's followed by hazy purple clouds, before there is nothing left but darkness. Perhaps not the most horrific of images, unless it happens to be on your most precious laptop. The machine that has so faithfully served me since June 2002, the end of my college-era, has finally fallen. An msn conversation early last week erupted into these clouds that would hound my dreams for a long long while. I did manage to exert all my powers to retrieve the many precious pictures I had on a single disc, but the documents are lost. Please remove your hats, place them on thy hearts, and mourn with me for a while.

On Blogging

If one were to, say, imagine every post as bait. Then that "prized" position of first poster would be the fish that leads them all to their doom. And every comment would be paying homage to the skill of the fisherman. But we don't see it as such. What we see it as is us, them, and them so much more sure, in themselves, then we are in us. Or do we just see through it all, like another face on the underground. A week of no typing has made my fingers stiff.

On Advertising

The tube seems to be a place most perfect for such items. For in recent news I have learnt of a 35 pound all inclusive trip to Alton Towers, and the existence of free air guitars for every customer at Madam Tussauds. We like our ads, those that are well made. Perhaps that's why we applied there, and yet were not suited to a life such as that. Sin City out June 3rd. How do I know?

On Thoughts

Why start every portion with "the"? So I use a pointless sentence like the last one to change my monotony. Pathetic. And the best thoughts always come so late at night. In bed. Those that I would most like to store. When I sit here, it is just dim memories of my plan that I put down. All this was meant to be separate posts. But now I squiggle them together out of impatience.

On Eyelashes

They fall off now and again. Do you blow them off a fingertip and make a wish? Because I do, for though I believe not that they shall make my wishes come true, it still feels good, and I have no reason to believe I shall not be lucky once more.

On Sleeping

It is said, by those who know such things, that the position in which we lay ourselves down to sleep speaks volumes with regards to our inner-selves. Perhaps, for originally I was one who favoured the curl, and now prefer more of an "h" shape. I don't know what this means, maybe I don't even care. But it's a thought, so it lives, and I give it flesh. Skin, helps keep our insides, in!

On Friendship

One person to whom I owe a lot is Sherry, and I suppose what makes it easier to say is that he doesn't read this. Not that those girls as provided their support and friendship were not wonderful, but he has always been a slice of home. And now, three years on, when I see how many stayed in touch, and what slim lines we balanced on, I wonder how deeply I might have lost myself if there was not something so real from my past to keep me grounded in whatever reality I have created for myself. My distatste for these foreign lands is complete, as the sun sets I realise I am a creature of the night not as one that loves it but as one that finds solace yet solitude in it. For their lives and mine shall never be one. And of the others that have remained, some of whom read and others that do not, I shall never offer my gratitude for that is too nice, but a nod in your direction visible or not.

On Cricket

We won we won, yay yay yay!

On the Weekend

So it was that the Easter Weekend came to pass, and we went not to Paris as the plan originally stood. Instead, those finances as existed for the tunnel hop went to the Zee Cine Awards, which was if nothing else, a real experience. Unfortunately I discovered I have a deep level of disgust for desi's as well, so instead I shall just generalise and say I hate all people except for the people I don't hate, and I cover my hatred with sugar to remain friendly on the surface until someone gets too close and accidentally rubs it off. Oh but I'm never angry nor rude, for it is more like keeping your hand over a kettle as the water boils aways, first clammy, and then scalding... scorching I prefer. The awards themselves, ignoring the audience, were somewhat fun, somewhat not. Watching our dear Pakistani Representetives march up there and make utter fools of themselves, and geez Reema was awful, yes that was... humorous yet devastating. The only person I could really show off to was Fahad, and yet he knows everything before I tell him, so as soon as I mentioned I had something to show off about he knew where I had been. Phaw.

On Cousins

I have a new one, the mamoo in Sweden finally deciding to enter the wonderful world of parenthood. Girl. Samr/Samer/Summer, however they plan to spell it. Sweet, I suppose, but my relationships with all my cousins thus far have always been rather rocky. When you're two decades older than your cousin though, I suppose they'd be more distant than rocky anyway.

On Empathy

Just because we understand, doesn't always mean we know what to say. And when we know what needs to be said, we know not how to say it. It takes a great leap of courage, and oft now in this new world have I seen great friendhsips crumble under misplaced honest words. Perhaps it's the people. Perhaps twas the foundations that were a lie. But now we listen, we understand, we nod and we smile. And we let our eyes talk for those that would listen, and our tongue is barred from causing more pain than is needed. It is not necessary, to test every boundary, lest it break.

On Fashion

It struck me only recently how I can see thousands of people in the same day, and never will I see one wearing the same thing I wear. Just slightly less remote are the chances of seeing any two people wearing the same thing within a space of 10 metres. Usually much more. There's only so many different clothes. The variation in tastes is amazing. And yet there is that I can admire, and so much I can't. When the American came and was shocked by what we wore, for we wore "normal" clothes, jeans and proper tops, that wasn't right, at least for Purdue. There they come in shorts and a vest to lectures. Thanks the Lord I didn't go there, yet I do want to go work in America at some point. Subtle differences might be all one needs.

On Subtle Inflections

How. We. See. Only. Whats. Not. There. And. Miss. Whats. Here.
?!
There was an odd style in an article or two of our Aitchisionian. Wotsits?
:-/

On The Knights Templar

While a large-ish amount of study on the matter completely piked my interest, the book I grabbed from an accquaintance has been rather difficult to read. Working more like a history book, while many of its offered insights are truly remarkable, I keep falling asleep while reading it. Oh but if historians could write well the world would be a more pleasing place. Or even conspiracy theorists for that matter.

On a Lifetime

Which is never enough. There is so much to see. So much to do. So much to learn. I envy those who know, by now, so much more than I do. And yet we've all lived equal amounts and for every speck of knowledge I don't have, I know something they do not. Was reading LOTR twice, and watching the same movies over and over again a waste of precious time? Perhaps. How about those hours spent sleeping, when many would argue that only 6 is enough. Does it really give me that extra energy? Perhaps, again. I wish I knew more. I wish I'd seen more. I'm happy and content, yet straining against those restraints I can neither see nor identify. Part of me wants to be a part of this world, to take it in. To understand what the people know. To be able to meld so freely in smoke-filled bars. Not the latter, no. Auras wrap around me and fill me with a gut-wrenching nausea whenever I am near a public house. Took me while to learn it's the real name for a pub and not a toilet anyway. So many lives. And you see so many. Walking by you, pushing by you. What do they all go home to? I'm satisfied now, but a part of me hopes, and this is a far more significant part, that when I die, I shall for a while at least, be able to roam the world freely, and take in all the nature that my prison of concrete does keep away from me. At least then. my worry about decent nearby showering facilities shall be somewhat diminished.

On Studying

Ashamed I am to admit it, but I liked being spoonfed. Finding miles of papers to read through hurts. And I grow bored so easily. A challenege, any challenge is good. But it is no challenge to read hundreds of papers, though they might prepare me for my ultimate challenge... again. Why am I here? I've wasted countless precious moments when I could have been reading on any number of economic theories. Yet my internet withdrawal for over a week, I didn't miss msn as such. I have recently found myself unable to focus on msn, losing the conversation thread sooner than it has begun. I hail no one, and just sit there, watching conversations die because I can't be motivated to push them forwards. And... they stop coming. So I'll keep in touch otherwise, but what keeps me from studying now is too many thoughts, too many hopes, and the loneliness of wrapping myself in a shell with paintings so dull that my eyelids fall of their own accord.

On the Blue Ninja

I find it fascinating how far this project has gone. For something that runs only in my mind, I have saved the world several times, and it plays in parts, almost like episodes. And as the character grew older and started to hit 40-something, was married and what not, I had to kill his wife... my own, I don't know. Technically I am myself supposed to be the Blue Ninja, with the most complete and intricate storyline ever, far off, yet unnamed places and characters. I've reset time, or a being has anyway. And now I'm in medieval times, aboard a ship, captain of that and another as we sail through perilous seas to enlist the aid of the elves to close the huge demon portal that was opened to save the world, and yet might cause more harm than good should they break free...

On Time

There's never enough. And maybe that's the best thing about it!

Das vadanya!

"Run, Forrest, Run!"

-Random stranger as I rushed past towards the cinema to watch Constantine.

I like the sound of the wind rushing by.

University is over. Three years. So elitist. Observe the drunk snobbery. How does it end? 4 Aitchisionians wondering about the many odd aspects of the white-mans culture.

The same feeling of remorse as my last graduation? Nay.
A different one. As if I've missed something, but don't know what.

So blank, so empty. And 2 months for kick-ass hard work to ace the same exams, that as always, my entire future shall depend upon. It always come to this, precariously balanced upon the edge of ze knife... with a final round Shell interview on May 9th & 10th, exams on 25,27,1 and 10 and then hopefully off to Europe ASAP. Must watch Star Wars on release day.

And so it ends. Gawrsh.

Blade

Dancing. Singing. Talent. Implicit. Explicit. Needed. Not. Waltz, one. Waltz, two. Swing, chairs, tables and grass. Umbrellas, large, pink, white. Cocktails, straws, tarantella, tango. Music. And how do you write music? Can you read music? Can you read music and hear it? Only 10% of what we say is what we convey. The idea that words mean so much without tone, nor psoture, without inflection nor reflection, without a mouth to say them and a tongue to roll those lovely Rs. But I like how the letters roll out. Spill onto my parchment to flow into words over which I have only a miniscule level of control. Words. Are all I have? No. I'm an animation. I can hold up a signboard to say what I want. And if I don't want another minute to go by then why do I sit here playing with collected thoughts from time gone by when corporations insist I write essays on their control of global economic policies. Because I live my life on the edge of a blade? Perilous. Hardly. Exciting. Only as much as I make it. Yeah, that's it. My blog. I can throw up all over it. My thoughts. Cut with them. Word will never hurt me. Cut the tension. Cut..cut..CUT!

glint

What blades can we speak of anyway. Faster than the speed of light. I'm energy. Though I still raise my hand and will objects to come hurtling towards me. Though I still believe in telekinesis and the force. Though I still believe that being human is too dull and my character of Blue Ninja (daftly named, uber cool) will live on forever. So I went to watch Hitch yesterday and found the trailer of Episode III amazingly gripping. Are you threatening me Master Jedi?

glint

What talk of blades is there anyway. What is synonymous with blades? I ask too many questions and yet pose so many as statements. Similies and metaphors, what difference is there between the sun and the moon for what I could compare to icy blue oceans is not that which I shall ascibe to a rose, so tender sweet like a steak plucked from a still beating heart, sealing the fate of the undead in the final throes of its existence, as delicate as a moth trapped wihting a lightbulb, blissful agony, sweet delirium, rivulets of bright, red, love.

glint

The sheer number of uses to which any blade can be put to has only come to my attention in the last year, give or take half of one. And though my thoughts are currently distracted, lost on stormy seas off the coast of Africa, gentle beats reminiscent of Enya, I still make my sad attempt to write on that which I know so much yet say so little. Those moments coming up in an elevator, silent, solitude. Wannabe by Spice Girls blaring in your MP3 player and the burst of laughter from your fellow occupants. Does it quite capture embarassment. Not when you've worn a t-shirt with a subtle message no one was able to catch all day. Sad, risky, and depressingly relieving.

glint

I s/i'd. Whay is s/i? Probably not the right reaction to such a claim. Where have you been as culture, tradition and teenage angst culminated in this most magnificent display of self-mutilation to justify all the internal torment. Self injury, the more politically correct would say. A physical manifestation of an emotional pain. Robin left to bleed from his wrist as the days went by and his merry men wondered. Count the cuts. The markings. Any blade will work. Will do. Razors. Scissors. Pencil tops, sharpeners, fragments of glass. I bleed now over that screen which holds me in. Cut. Cut. Cut. Cat scratches dear, why do you worry. Oh but for a cat of such mindless love. The perils of penelope pitstop. What's your ugly little secret. I know what blades do. How does it work? I couldn't understand. It flows, out. The evil, the rage, the wrath. It makes you fele better. So I learnt. So I consoled. You don't understand. No kidding. There was never anything there to understand. Drink away your sorrows today, and failing that let them flow. Hehe, and then eventually the demented hopeless cycle throws you away or drags you in. Forced acceptance. Forced rejection. Join the darkside or be taken. I'm not shelled. I just have nothing to share. I shrug and my palms are throw open upwards, bare. Split a hair, get out the way.

glint

Who invented the idea of moving on ice. You sit and propel yourself, can go wherever you want to. But to cut across its surface, to learn is to lose an inital fear of lost control. I never got blades in that way. How do you brake? There's no stopping. Oh but the analogies we could draw from roller blading. The similarities with life. Lives. Not ours always, but theirs. Life's everythign from a bag of peanuts to a grain of sand in an oyster shell. Philosophy is amusing that way. When there is no right or wrong, is it really what you say? Or how you say it?

glint

That particular colour is like blood really. After it's spilt. I don't even knows what drives my fascination for donning the persona of a vampire anymore. I know not much of their lives. Haven't even read Dracula. I suppose the little I do know allows me to build up my own fanciful image. Perhaps even from Blade. A Daywalker. That's what I am. Resistant to garlic, because I'm a pizza-loving vampire. There are some things you just fall into. I'm a vampire. And I'm adorned with a blade that represents more Asha'man than a cross to signify my counter-evil, but then who cares for such differences?

glint

It's marvellous how you can lead yourself to believe there is some greater, deeper meaning behind every utterance. Our ability to make vast sweeping statments like that, to believe we know better, to assume that mankind deceives itself because so our observation states, and that of countless others, is it truly our right. What if they're right. What if their delusions are what make them, and hence are real. Happiness is nothing more than a short memory. At least I can conveniently shift from elephant to stegasaurus. Envy me. And I know not whether I say that to you now, or to myself years from now.

glint

Maybe I had more to say. It's always a race against time. On blades, I can hardly use one. A letter opener from LOTR. I can't even shave right. Oh but some manly stubble helps dispel so much. Doesn't it? Shouldn't it? When they all smile at you, you smile back. No names. Just a grin. And that small sparkle. What can make a day, or a small flutter. They say a smile is uber powerful. Tears are stronger, but they won't tell you that. Don't poke the illusion. It's been a long long time since a non-fiction piece of mine made someone cry. A long reported time anyway. Is that really an aim. Maybe. Could be one of many. What remains my primary focus here is still a mystery, no? So it was well sweet, when, he, called. Oooh commas, whosa gonna correct me now? But somehow my Kith and Kids essay got back to him, only last week. While working on my presentation my phone rings and he tells me how it found its way to him. And brought a tear to his eyes. I've always found that solitary tear navigating its way down a face to be much more appealing. That's probably a mental note for myself. After all, I know what I want. A zigga-zig-Ah.

glint

In all honesty when I say glitn so often I forget what it means. A small shine? The dull sheen on a blade? A bright springle, hey pringle, pop it. But then, who cares huh, hmmm. We know what we wants. We wants to finish our essay, our preciousssssss.

Sssssssssssssssss'nikt!

'Nuff Said!

Of the Creepies and the Crawlies

I figure that alongwith my rather poor grasp of different cloths and associated materials, I'm not very good at identifying various greens either. Any trip to Tescos remains mind boggling as you're assaulted by shelf upon shelf of greens and herbs, and even green spices which don't even include green chillies. I suppose coriander and lettuce have their subtle, or not so, differences. Of course my failings probably go deeper as in my last trip I managed to pick up blue fresh range eggs. I didn't even know it was possible to lay blue eggs, and for some reason nobody seems to want to eat them. They look like chicken eggs, probably just a severe case of depression.

But going back to the greens, what may or may not have been corriander was seen yesterday in a quarter plate looking remarkably like a lizard. And no ordinary lizard, a good Class A chipkali for which I would generally go dashing out the house to summon a hunter for quick and efficient disposal. Therefore, what folows is by no means a wave of nostalgia and fond memories of better days long gone by. Rather, it's a less than complete run through of what I had forgotten would be my greatest fear upon returning to Pakistan this summer.

Sliding the bolt shut, turn the key in its huge lock three times, no less. Attach the chain and make sure the main door is definitely secure. The four rather flimsy shutters on its side remain a source of worry, but then fashion has its costs. From there it would be on to pour some water and have that last drink before calling it a night, or at least before marching off upstairs after turning off all the lights. Oh but then I'd always forget to chain the laundry room. So there I'd go, reach for the chain and fall back a mile. Because oh lucky me there would always be something hiding behind the sliding doors. A shade of green that I imagine in all sorts of unlikely places now, and comparable to things we shan't mention in civilised conversation. Streaking, elegant... phaw! A mad dash would ensue to unfasten all the locks on either the back kitchen door or the main door and call my brave warrior, weilding his battle-weary jharoo like the mightiest sword, eyes darting from left to right in search of his wary prey. I suppose he enjoyed the hunt, though it was always part of the plan to catch and dispose, while I watched from a fair distance. Mafioso. Oh but the smarter ones could hide. Holes would appear to swallow them up and the battlefield would be left with the choking smell of insectide set to stun. There would always be something to lend victory to the warrior though, at the least a detached tail. Gah... horrible things they are. And only one of my return worries. Worse was when it would show up in my room or bathroom, causing it to turn into a restricted area until the enemy was neutralised. Sleeping with a potential slimer on the ceiling ready to drop is not an acceptable option. Occassionally defeat would mean bunking out in my mothers room on the sofa bed or one of the many guest rooms if a suitable temperature and bed linen could easily be assembled.
Yeah lizzie's were bad. But there's worse. Cockroaches. The hidden enemy that has forever put me off dates. The edible sort. Worse than the former. Killable, but never could I do it. The horrid squish. The possibility of failure due to the creautres resilience. And its ability to appear out of nowhere. Any nocturnal use of a room would only come after a complete search for crawlers, but roaches have a habit of coming where there were none in the first scan. But you know what makes them really bad. Ultra super bad. They can freakin FLY! Oh that's just the worst. Ever afraid of disturbing one should it try to zoom for the face. I remember once throwing a tissue box on top of one in desperation to buy the arriving Rescue Squad some time lest it run away. The whole box started to move! Oh tarnations. It's just the squishy squelchy really, and the possibility of failure. But in one way roaches are kind. I wouldn't spray them coz they can fly, but they're kind in the way that when they'e dead you know it. They conveniently belly-flop. An inverted one is a dead one, no matter how long its legs keep rattling.
The last enemy is one I can't remember too well. But you can hear it. In the night, when the lights are off, the chirping begins. Chirping. Hah! Chirping is what birds do. Supposedly a pleasant sound. Not when you hear it in a room at night. Not all fo them were grasshoppers. Marblehoppers. Long springs for back legs, able to leap whole slabs in a single bound. Killable. Sprayable. But egads what a squelcher they make. I don't like mots either. Whole load of creepers with wings. Ok so there's four of them. I can kill a moth, with a tissue box usually. Well if I could. It just keeps flying and diving and diving and flying.

Yeah well I am looking forward to coming/going back this summer. Just a few things I had forgotten. The later ones, the night ones. The vampires and werewolves of Lahore. Maybe I'm braver now. But keeping in mind my run in late last summer with a wasp and the ensuing fairly comic yet hardly courageous scenes, I somehow doubt the ability of certain characteristics to change. That said though, in other places outside of my own home, only roaches really bother me. The rest, not so much. Another plus point is witht he Japanese people now living on the lower half, and the intense levels of fumigation et all, the actual presence of creepy crawlies is really rare. But I can never let down my guard. Ever.

Because you never know.

Snowy

Boys had trolls. Subtle difference from boys being trolls. But I remember back in Junior School you'd see the odd troll pop up during the exam season. Small olive-brown plastic dolls, with the bright, usually gaudy, perpetually messy Marge without a hairbrush style hair. I don't know how lucky they were, I never had one. My sister did, and I would often play with their hair, or at the least twirl them round using their hair. Purple, green, blue, teal... fascinating colours and a welcome addition to any bookshelf. But I never owned a troll. Perhaps just one of many things I missed having. Eventually nobody brought them to school anymore, probably hiding them away with the other skeletons in their closets.
What I don't have is boxes upon boxes of memories. The little things, the giant ones, all those companions during my prima-evolutionary stages. In small hidden dispatches, those objects that I thought I was done with would slowly reach my "toy chest". And the toy chest would never really fill up as the lower layers would conveniently find their way to the chosen orphanage of the season. Spring cleaning came far too often back then. Garage sales remain something of a mystery to me.
In what was an enviable collection of Transformers figures, along with a hardly dismissible array of heros from the worlds of Thudercats, Teenage Mutant Ninja/Hero Turtles and Batman/Spiderman to name a few... oh don't forget Buck O'Hare, I now retain just small scraps. A leg-less Venom, a broken arm from a terminator, lost kitanas found too late. Bags and bags are now a collection of "junk" on the bottom of the toychest. By now it must have gathered a friendly group of dust bunnies to keep it company, but there they'll stay because even some memories now are better than none.
Possibly.

There was something else that everyone had, other than trolls. And if everyone is used unfairly in discussions pertaining to troll ownership, it's no exaggeration when speaking of the current paragraphs focus. Everyone minus epsilon had, in some way or another, at some time or the other, given by a mother or a brother (ok scratch the last line!) a "soft toy". A cuddly? Or whatever general name one might have gifted to that range of childhood co-adventurers that inevitably included Mr.Teddy Bear. Of course I'm not being brand specific. I had a "Teddy", but was really never rather attached. The whole brown look kinda threw me off. No, my best friends were my monkey, who really wasn't all that soft, with a hard plastic face and hands and feet (the fingers and toes could be inserted into Mr.Monkeys nose/mouth/ears 8-)) and, of course, Snowy.
Other than Snowys more memorable distinguishing characteristics, it's probably important to highlight that he was my only softtoy that didn't end up with a name as original as Mr.Monkey or Mr.Bear (it was a predominantly male collection). My brothers equivalent was his large soft German Shepherd called Beethoven, received soon after the movie about the dog by the same name came out. But this isn't his story. And Snowy goes back a lot further.
As fate would have it, Snowy was in fact a bear. And a soft toy. But this was no ordinary bear. He was a polar bear! Pure white, and the softest most velvety feel, special I suppose because it wasn't velvet fur really. I'm not that good with materials, a failing I've long deemed to be one of my greatest, and yet one I shall probably never put enough effort into correcting. But he was white. And real. Not like those flimsy fictional teddies that could stand on two legs. He was on all four, shaped a bit like an igloo, and lusciously squishy. Obviously he had little beady black eyes, with slight shades of brown swimming in it. Not exactly an iris, unless an iris could just fade in and out of the pupil. And a soft, only barely hard brown nose. That was surely velvety on the top, not some horrible plastic. And you could press it in, turn his whole face into his body, and end up with a sort of tortoise-come-polar bear. I might have even though a decapitated polar bear, but I'm not sure about how sadistic I was as a child, and do remember my despair when once I had trouble getting his face back out again.
Snowy was old though. I have some vague dim memory of a rather large store stuffed with soft toys (reminding me that they were known as stuffed toys as well) in which either I picked him or he was picked for me. He travelled a fair bit with me though. I rarely actually slept while holding onto a soft toy, and would more often engage him in battles with other figures. Sometimes if I were cold though, and many a cold winter night there were, he would be warmer than a bed that had not been used all day.
I suppose it's funny. Depends on the angle. Eventually, after dragging him across the world and to the drawer under the bed in Lahore, his significance started to fade. Maybe around the same time that the trolls vanished in school. He'd be taken out now and again. His fur would be grey at times, but nothing a washing machine cycle couldn't fix. I was, and probably never will be big on pets. But his fluffed up post wash fur might have been similar to what any four legged animal would've looked like.
There's no real reason to even remember him now. He's gone, that much I know. I hope he actually found his way to someone that might've looked after him. What might have been physical manifestations of "memories", I have few bordering on none of. Maybe that's why I wear the ring around my neck every day even after my obsession with Lotr has faded. Maybe that's why I wear my leather wrist band even to an interview where I doubt it went down well. Maybe, though in no way certainly because it's just more of an "image" now and I have no concrete reasons for doing what I do. Just as maybe though, I might be able to attach memories to these items that are not essential now, like the watch I wore from my 13th to my 19th birthday. That's my Teen G-Shock. Maybe it's not really childhood memories, and then memories are things you don't forget anyway, but at least I have things I can look back on. Is that useful? Not in any real way. But maybe decades from now, if I can hang onto it all, it might be.
Maybe.

The snow is beautiful now. It took its time to start falling, but it falls now. Like the wind has blown through a field of dandelions, and none settle on the ground, swirling magnificently in the air and under street lights. It's snowy.