A day too cold for postcards.
Taking a single glove off could wreak mass casualties of pinky frostbite.
Multiple layers of pants are involved. We all moan like its the end of recess. We’ve gotten soft. The streets are freezing, waterways, fountains, ridiculous snot bubbles-stone solid.
As soon as April arrives we’ll caterwaul over expedited blazing days, a summer beating sun accompanied by a damn deathly humidity made for the rainforest.
Meanwhile, we still find ourselves talking about the weather.