You will find yourself skimming on fine powder. The world will whizz by, a blur of trees and white mountains. Snow drifts collect on every side of your board. It will only be you and the wind.

Protect yourself from envy of your neighbor's shiny cutlery, matched plates and serving dishes, gleaming metal Kitchenaid mixers and refrigerators that make actual ice.

While attempting a backward flip on a crowded dance floor, you will realize that your limbs have lost their supple memory of youth. Keep on dancing anyway as the lyrics "love, love will tear us apart again" blast from the club's massive speakers.

Remember that price is arbitrary, art is a construct and beauty, a device used to hawk powders and cloth. Give up any attempt to pin her to a wall. Those facets are mirrors, not windows. The hallway is filled with smoke.

When you walk into the bar past midnight, you will find it empty save for the queen behind the bar offering you a bite of his dinner and a trio of hecklers in unfortunate hats.

When he finally chooses her, remember his friends' whispers. "Tiburon," they murmured in your ear. "Be careful," they warned. You realize that in the end, it wasn't so much that he was a shark. Rather, you were both world-weary lions circling each other, claws unsheathed, afraid of dying.

The clouds today are sheep, shrouding the mountains in mist and snow, almost bleating a hidden thunder. She will walk out the door, the silver through her ears like tiny swords, ready to take the city on. You will watch from your picture window, the mountains and her, counting the end of days.

He will sing of his father's face, staring at him from the mirror. She will tell of her four mothers who are lost to her now. You will pick up a smooth black stone and remember your own kin. Light a golden incense stick and let the smoke bring your whispers up to your blind great-grandmother, who has waited for you to remember her all these years.

When the urge to smash his rosy-cheeked, dark-rim framed faux-NYC-hipster-by-way-of-rural-Pennsylvania face takes a hold of you in the middle of a busy day, breathe deeply and remember his incompetence in matters of flesh and stamina. Once calmed, say a little prayer for the girl he currently misleads then turn your attention to more worthy things.

You will greet the New City with its jagged skyline and neon lights. Here will be wealth and greed, beauty and energy, cities and cities replicating themselves across the coasts of countries. Each shadows of the same synthesized song. You will collect stories and diversions. Make friends. Indulge in longing. Refuse to partake of turtle soup. Marvel at the severe lines of women's silhouettes. Realize that here too, is a life you could live.

A handsome stranger on a trip over water. Bitter chocolate wrapped in mint green tissue. Two dozen tulips in white and deep purple from a secret admirer. The song he wrote for you. A mix tape. A kiss.

Temptation is a snake in the desert, the devil offering you a drink of water and a pile of gold.

When she tells you about Iceland, nod and agree that Reykjavik was too small to contain her and that faeries are mere folktales, not even myths. Her hair will be onyx black and her eyes, like that of a fox, will hold and measure you in mere seconds.

At the end of the year with two springs, celebrate with a pomelo. Wear red, tie your wishes to an orange and throw. Do not believe in animal fortunes but mark your body with a dragon, just in case.

Music and madness will seize you, all in one night. Purple shirts glinting. A man with buttons on his lapel will give you a wink. Asymmetrical haircuts accost you at every corner.

You will find yourself lost in a place of glass panes, straight lines and white walls. Be guided by the Architect's low, gentle voice. Do not use the Miro's to find your way to a long wooden table and a warm hearth.

You will be swallowed by disease and disappear for a week. Drink lots of fluids. Sleep under a fairy hill. Repress the urge to box the ears of annoying, selfish boys.

(My apologies for the lack of posts this past week. I have been battling a monster with antibiotics and codeine-laced syrup. Slowly recovering now though dancing is limited to thirty minutes a day.)