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From the Fiery Inferno that Is Chicago 


Thursday, January 06, 2005

Hell hath frozen over, quoth the little bird.

We plopped into the snow and lay there looking up at the sky. A lady passing by asked us if we needed help getting up.

"Oh, no, we want to be here," I answered.

We got up anyway as another group of people passed.

In the quiet intersection of many backyards we found the perfect hill. Whooping up the slope, we screamed as we missed a few trees, safe from a Sonny Bono death. No neighbours peeked out the windows.

Afterwards, before we went in, we took off our sweaters and gloves and toques, so no one would suspect that we went for a romp in the snow.

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