Spirit Flogging in the Frozen Weest

It’s not even the driving snow, the uncalled-for elevation, the snake egg fortune cookie wisdom of the parched hippies, or the generally fleece-lined Kansas-adjacent flogging of the wind and cold. The issue is elemental, focused, primordial - hard to explain. It’s less of a dislike of a place than the result of a ceaseless whistling twitch in my veins, driving a commanding urge to dig my redneck turned soft-neck fingernails into the delicate and danger-free redwood fluff of my new neighborhood. Just to feel a little of its moisture in my parched and frozen hands would soothe both body and soul.

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