Ice cold, ice cold

A few days ago it was a street preacher at the corner, and today it's a man with a cooler like the kind you take on a family picnic, and it's full of bottles of water that he's selling for $1 each.

I don't know much about sound except that it travels. And, like the street preacher, the constant refrain of ice cold, ice cold is touching a nerve, and I'm feeling the man's urgency while at the same time wishing he weren't there.

We pioneer our own destinies, and what I fear most-- screaming ice cold, ice cold, myself-- has probably already happened. In fact, I'm pretty sure of it.