This December morning was exceptionally cold in Atlanta. The air was so thick, you could cut it into the thin broad slices. I got definitely spoiled with the mild Georgia climate, as this by any means was no comparison with frosty mornings in Siberia, when a spit lends on the ground frozen. My run to the office was interrupted by an incredible collage that was unfolding on the lawn right in front of my eyes. A passerby cracked a joke about me kneeling down on the icy ground, at the time, when every warm-blooded creature tries to stay away from cold.

Hope Ray Bradbury will forgive me for the title.