Imagine hurling yourself across January crust, skimming on top, reckless and loud. The bright full moon, slung low over the trees; the ruby blood spread across unbroken brilliant white snow. Think of gorging and fullness and contentment and the steam from your nose sending breath into the heavens, you a part of everything. Dream of life.

Think, next time at the grade-school mixer, when you realize that your child’s teacher has spoken only to fourth-graders for so long she seems weirdly retarded, and the principal is instituting yet another “Peace Plan” for negotiating and “envisioning” and group problem-solving and anything, anything but fucking goddamned motherfucking stinking reading and writing! Look at cute Susie’s mom all smarmy and stupid, lapping it up. Think, wouldn’t it be nice to smell her fear? Just for a minute?

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