When I was in line, waiting, at length, in the cold, to ascend the mountainish thing so that I could slide down it in a condom-wrapped inner tube, I, having let the young ones I accompanied go on ahead, felt very much alone. This was the kind of thing you should be doing with someone else. I wished I had made the kids endure me.
Then, flying on a pillow of snow with more descending and the wonders of Pennsylvania in every periphery, I was alive. With pleasure.
I must have had the kind of happiness that only a Newport smoker feels regularly.