Snowy mornings make me remember that little house where I rented a room in Johnson, Vermont... a sleeping bag and my books. A wood stove for heat. A happy young couple shared the rent -- they took the room upstairs. She was gorgeous. I secretly loved her. She let me borrow her Leonard Cohen record. That's how I disovered Cohen: a beautiful girl, an impossible love triangle, self-imposed loneliness and snow that wouldn't stop falling... an over-exposed photograph. I can still hear the crunch and squeak of the snow underfoot when I'd leave the house to the lovers and go walk in the weather.

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