No Parking
On a night where breath freezes white and faces freeze red, I advise you to take childish delight in a carpark full of cars sparkling with thick ice frosting. Go forth and burn your handprints into the windshields. Go forth and breathe your warm life onto the coruscating paintwork. Go forth and survey the carpark with half-lidded eyes, so that the raw, icy world blurs and softens into a hazy mirage of fuzzy light and gauzy sparkling freeze. Exhale, and watch your white warmth disperse into the crisp, glacial night air.
Then run like hell, because you are about to turn into a human icicle.