At the surface - it was white death. Death of a needle-fingered cold driven before the wind, sucking heat from any warm thing. Cold - and white mist of endless, everlasting drift, the fine, fine particles of licking snow that obscured all things.
A carnival in daylight is an unfinished beast, anyway. Rain makes it a ghost. The wheezing music from the empty, motionless rides in a soggy, rained-out afternoon midway always hit my chest with a sweet ache. The colored dance of lights in the seeping air flashed the puddles in the sawdust with an oily glamour.
....You were not there for The Beginning. You will not be there for The End.... Your knowledge of what is going on can only be superficial and relative....
...And surely I stopped very sudden; for she gripped me in that moment, and her hand shook as she held me; but when I would ask her what ailed, she bid me, very breathless, to say on, to say on. And, with a half understanding, I told her that I had but meant to speak of the Moon Garden, that was an olden and happy fancy of mine.