Homage to Bill Watterson.

A few days ago, as the Gods had granted us the most satisfying, thick, white rug of snow the kid in me woke. The snow held the perfect temperature and was what we like to call kram. It was ideal for artistic expressionism.
An hour later, I could behold what looked like a psychotic children’s fantasy wearing my black bowlerhat.

Then came two degrees plus, and mr. Snowman sagged more and more each day until he is now laying flat on the ground, still smiling his crazy, demented grin.