Fiery icicles hanging from the lofty peaks of the random rainmakers. Riotous rolled-up youthful kittens rollicking about, winding through the thicket. They know, they know. They always know that life is no rifle range. Shoot the rapids, scale the ripples. Ripped up, ripped off, ribbons of reeking rabid wrappers. Rancid in the least degree, we are no more the boys of winter, nor summer.