Drive your cart and your plow over the bones of the dead.

Every year, there are people who drive into the back of our plows. Motorists who tailgate a plow can find themselves lost in a snow cloud. They can't see the road or the plow in front of them in time to stop.

Then cherish pity, lest you drive an angel from your door.

If you can't see, you can't plow.

We've just got to plow on through.

In the beginning his flesh was simply soft, so soft that he was cut to the bone by dust particles, air currents and brushing overcoats while direct contact with doors and chairs seemed to occasion no discomfort. No wound healed in his soft, tentative flesh... Long white tendrils of fungus curled round the naked bones.