The spirit-destroying part of winter. The weeklong subzero wind chill is finally gone, but there's still a deep chill in the air. Remnants of Christmas and other wintery detritus are poking up through snow as dirty as the low, gray sky. Everything moves slowly. Entropy rules. Thought bogs down in molasses and comes to a virtual standstill.
From The Letters, Emily Dickinson, early December 1852, quoted by John Latta in Isola di Rifiuti:
I regret to inform you that at 3. oclock yesterday, my mind came to a stand, and has since then been stationary.Not quite a snail yet, but getting there.
Ere this intelligence reaches you, I shall probably be a snail.