Snow falls; big flakes in straight lines, like cartoon snow.
Each department store window is a reliquary. We admire the elves for their mechanical dedication to the fulfillment of our desires. In the midst of it all is a train whose every destination implies gingerbread. Silver Bells plays over loud speakers, hidden on columns amongst garland and colored balls. The man behind the counter watches us, sure that we are thieves; we are, but steal nothing during the season. On the corner outside we watch the street lamp, hypnotized by the constancy of the falling snow.
Nothing in our lives will ever be as difficult as pulling on the second mitten.