We're going to have a white Christmas for the first time in decades.
So far, it's a quiet night in the ER. A few toddlers with fever, a guy with a seizure after drinking at Christmas Eve party. The schizophrenics will start coming in after 2 am... "The CIA put little machines beneath my skin! See, you can see them crawling around!"
I know this is probably over-quoted, but I can't help it, I think of it whenever it snows: the ending of James Joyce's 'The Dead'.
It had begun to snow again. He watched sleepily the flakes, silver and dark, falling obliquely against the lamplight. The time had come for him to set out on his journey westward. Yes, the newspapers were right: snow was general all over Ireland. It was falling on every part of the dark central plain, on the treeless hills, falling softly upon the Bog of Allen and, farther westward, softly falling into the dark mutinous Shannon waves. It was falling, too, upon every part of the lonely churchyard on the hill where Michael Furey lay buried. It lay thickly drifted on the crooked crosses and headstones, on the spears of the little gate, on the barren thorns. His soul swooned slowly as he heard the snow falling faintly through the universe and faintly falling, like the descent of their last end, upon all the living and the dead.