November. The twenty-fourth. They said it would be a white Thanksgiving here, and they were right. It has been snowing lazy and with an air of nonchalance since one.

Nick Cave is perfect music for the snow (not just any album, but No More Shall We Part--there is something in it--a feeling of newfound love?--that coincides with a first Wisconsin winter) and I listen to him, drowsing off and not thinking of anything, I do not make any attempt to understand my roommate--her childish scent of lotion and face cleaner and her Bob & Tom (or is it Bob & Mike? I've never listened to such things) humor Christmas CD (outdated with the same OJ Simpson Christmas carol on repeat) and her trip out to "taste snow" despite being from the midwest and well used to this sort of thing.

I am entranced by the snow, and love the sound of it but I have no desire to start putting up the tree, to start believing in the materialism of it all, or, indeed, to do anything more than enjoy the zen-like silence of it all. I wonder about her--the roommate. I wonder how old she is, inside.

It is not letting up, the snow. I wonder if it is just arrogant and a little lazy of me, to sit and watch it fall with sleepy disintrest. It can let up if it wants to, I think. But either way it is all the same to me. A bit like a lava lamp--something to watch, something I mildly want to find the words to describe, but something, ultimately, I couldn't care less about, except in aesthetic appreciation.

Perhaps, all the same, that's how I see everything in my life. Everything is something I need to somehow find a way to describe.

And, at any rate, that is probably much better than listening to laugh-track music and sitting in all day, talking to invisible phantoms on a chat room.