It was cold outside. I suppose that would explain why the snow continued to fall in great fluff balls of sticky, frozen rain. The warmth of the car's heater mixed with the dampness of human breath had fogged all of the windows. I lift up my hand and place it; palm flat, upon the condensation covered glass. It feels cold, but soothing. I take my hand away slowly, marveling at the perfect imprint that remains. A shadow of a smile flickers vaguely on my lips for a moment as I watch the imprint of my hand fade out across the window. The fog begins to dissipate, revealing the blurry trees and telephone poles that line the lonely highway. The country music that my father loves so much accentuates my quiet thoughts.

           "A dream is like a river, ever changing as it flows."

           My eyes feel heavy as the crimson light of the setting sun filters through the blurred trees and into the silver Chrysler. I pull my coat tighter around my shoulders even though the heat of the car is enough to chase off the chill. With an inaudible sigh I rest my head lightly on the passenger door, closing my eyes to avoid the fading sunlight. I wonder how long it will be until we reach the ski resort and I hope that all the snow that fell remains on the ground overnight.

           "And the dreamer's like a vessel that must follow where it goes."