Elongated stalactites cling tightly to the eaves. The mercury within the thermometer dives to the opposite end. Time passes slowly as the skeletal branches of trees have given up the memory of the tender touch of rain and the warm sun, only to be replaced with thoughts of shriveling up and dying. Thus it is in the winter of life and yet for those who have not yet given up the battle against the elements, the war wages on. Soon it will be replaced with green pastures, streets of gold and perfect temperatures. In an instant the landscape will be covered with fluffy, new fallen snow. In an instant, we will be carried into paradise.
What shall we complain about then?