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snowfall

the journal of Michael Werneburg

twenty-seven years and one million words

Toronto, 2017.12.11

It seemed, when riding this morning, that I'd timed the switch to the beater perfectly: the city had coated the streets with salt. The timing turned out not to be so great, in the end, however: the city's salt was for a coming snowstorm, in which I found myself riding in the evening.

A snowstorm in which I fell.

Happily it was a little-trafficked residential street, and there was plenty of fresh snow. I went back to see what I'd hit, and it turned out to be a slick patch of ice underlying the snow. In fact, my feet were slipping on more of the stuff. A car came along, and the driver checked on me. "First fall of the season," I told him, when he asked if I were all right. Then he headed off.

And proceeded to do donuts, winding up just decimeters from hitting a parked car. I went to class.

By the time I was heading home, the city's salt had mixed with the grime and snow to make a terrible salty mud-bath, which I had to clean from my clothes. Mari seized the pannier, which had almost undergone a color change, because she didn't want me hauling it around the apartment dropping grit for the week to come.

What a day!

rand()m quote

The man who lies to himself and listens to his own lie comes to such a pass that he cannot distinguish the truth within him, or around him, and so loses all respect for himself and for others. And having no respect he ceases to love, and in order to occupy and distract himself without love he gives way to passions and coarse pleasures, and sinks to bestiality in his vices, all from continual lying to other men and to himself.

—Fyodor Dostoevsky, The Brothers Karamazov