Dances with Wind

I am here in wild gale force wind Atlantic City in December. The wind has stirred my hair like an egg beater, class was predictable, and all the ice cream, salt water taffy and fudge shops are closed for the winter. It is all a little sad. It is all jaded and aged. All fun seems forced. All ambition seems habit. I want to retreat into the parallel universe of The West Wing politics until we get another chance and make it right. Do I get another chance to make anything right?