By Elizabeth deMare
Submitted to the Optic
The world exhales a stark and lonely breath this time of year. Trees as gray and naked as your great grandmother’s bones line the Las Vegas Plaza.
February makes you consider the world through muddy-colored glasses. Everyone’s a world-class curmudgeon with spit to share. Everyone wants spring, wants tulips and dandelions to sprout from aching, frozen brain. Any groundhog will tell you that you ain’t gonna get your wish, not for at least four weeks and most likely six.
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