A Simple Recipe

Take the wild blue light of the moon. Toss it into a clear night sky. Shake vigorously until the stars awaken. Hear the wind howl down the wall of the Black Mountains and lean into the mighty gusts. Let your face feel the frisk of it all in the dark, your eyes two moons staring back at the ever-reaching peaks.
This is the recipe for winter madness—the kind of elation that is forgiven if only for its inevitability, for its raw genuineness, for—above all else—the pure, fleeting rush of it.

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