Rooms

  The winds seem to blow for eternity.  What little snow reaches the ground

whips around like ghostly fingers, reaching out to touch you with frostbite.

As the glacier moves ever forward and backwards, like a great, slow tide,

you can hear the distant and sometimes not so distant rumble of ice and

rock, cracking and scraping.  Out here nothing appears to live.  You see

only a barren waste that does not give you the benefit of describing it as

from one horizon to the next.  Even when the clouds break and the storms

subside, glare from sun or moonlight bounce off the mirror like surface to

burn at your retinas.