So much white. Whiter than the population of Utah. I soon realized that it was not the white light of Heaven. Death, where is thy sting. I was not murdered for my succulent meat as I had suspected I might be. And while the snow did try to gain entry into our home by donning the brown shorts of the U.P.S. man, its inability to speak was the flaw in its subterfuge. Nevertheless, we are surrounded.
Trying to fill my final hours with card games. Uno. Uno! UNO! I long for Ocho Loco.
One shovel has already caught fire and exploded; I dare not go out again.