But at least it's dry sometimes. It doesn't rain or snow or sleet every day and there isn't always besmirching road wet. Sometimes it's dry and there's only dirt and loose gravel and potholes the size of pasta pots and not sauciers. Criminalize potholes.
Winter makes bus fumes feel like the warm wafts of summer air or maybe the exiting gases of a no longer dormant volcano. Waiting behind a bus on a red light is like being at a sauna for bike commuters. Soak it in. Cough it out.
Spring is never coming and that's a good thing. Chirping baby birds chirp annoyingly. Sod off, baby birds. And who likes flowers anyway? They put flowers on tombstones. Warm weather and sunlight is for chumps. The chumps get on their bicycles and they get in your way, you who has grown solicitous of solitude since before the solstice. Flanneled flaneur, you've grown used to having your voice muffled by your muffler, your mutterings and mumbles kept to yourself. The "warmos," as you've styled as people ensconced in their cars, don't deserve to hear you anyway. Whatever sayings you've said belong to you and to the cold winter wind.
It will never be warm again. That's ok.