The same could be said about the weather in Calgary. Oh, how mysterious it is, like an MC Escher drawing. Oh, how it echoes with musical vibrato, as winter does. Unlike a book, this weather has no structure. It has no layers. One might compare it with incomplete lasagna. It is a melancholy horror of which I love. A melancholy horror that probably doesn’t love me back. A melancholy horror that I desperately need.