Well, winter arrived here in the East like an uninvited and very obnoxious guest, the kind who drowns out everyone else and turns your well-planned dinner party into an exercise in frustration.
Millions are without power, downed tree limbs are everywhere, cars are smashed, there's a foot of snow in places, it's a big fat mess and it's still only October.
Got me to thinking: which season is the most murderous? Winter, with its pull indoors, its cozy fires, warming food, camaraderie, and just general constraint seems the least homicidal. It's just too damn cold to kill.
Spring is so lovely, a rebirth, flowers and warming breezes, green buds and pretty girls, promise and play. In the face of all that benevolence, I could see someone snap. He's got murder on his mind, damnit, he'll show all that beauty who's boss! Knock pretty little spring down a peg! Kill!
Fall is such a bittersweet season, the leaves are changing, there's a fragile beauty in the air, days (and lives) are growing shorter, a sense of the clock ticking down to ... death. Our killer feels his time is running out, it's now or never and so ... he makes his move. The deed is done.
Summer, ah, sweet languorous summer, when we've enveloped in the heat, the heat, that terrible stifling sexy heat, those long clinging nights when terrible thoughts and murderous urges percolate in the dense air, clothes come off, passions rise, jealousy and rage and a hint of madness -- it can all lead to only one place and that place ain't pretty.
And the seasons they go round and round, killing urges go up and down ...
p.s. -- Yes, I know it's Halloween (and is there a less scary day in the year?).
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