When is it that Winter became some brooding malevolent force, bent on the wanton destruction of hopes and dreams? What happened to the days when it just meant a brief pause in the wearing of flip flops and the occassional chance of snow? Now his darkness hangs over us as a pall of smoke. But fear not, for his time is coming to an end. The curtain draws on his darkest days and soon I shall stand fearlessly in a golden field and shout loudly as I confront him: 'Fie on you, you rapscallion! Unhand me, and cast me from your clutches! Send not for me in the night; send not to know for whom the bell tolls! Spring is upon us. Flee! Flee from her warm embrace!' Then I shall look long upon Winter, and laugh haughtily in his face. And cackling, I shall pronounce judgement. 'The end is nigh oh foul Winter.
'The bell tolls for thee.'
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