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Last night it snowed so much in Brooklyn that my glasses, which usually allow me to clearly distinguish my periphery, were covered with a thin skin of frozen junk.

Suddenly, all the charming and delicate young asian girls that I passed on the street (God knows, to my great pleasure, that the number of these ravishing creatures around here grows daily!) became, by virtue of my deranged spirit, innumerable eskimos on vacation in Brooklyn. (See my amateur video at the end of this story.)

Instead of following them as is my habit, I decided to calm myself down and head for the pool on Bedford Ave. (It’s well known that young, beautiful Asians can, in too great a dose, provoke illness.)

Maybe it was it because of the polar cold yesterday evening, but the pool, which usually resonates with a horde of noisy swimmers, was empty.

I was the only living creature in that enormous olympic basin. Alone with the latino lifeguard in his chair, both he and his chair collapsed, looking at a girlie magazine.

Of course, in the solitude of unbounded gallons of wet water it’s natural that zany ideas emerge, for example, I started imagining that the pool filled with fish of all sorts, races and hybrids that the chlorine didn’t affect.

Ahhh! to swim freely in the middle of a banc of sardines, encircled by laughing dolphins, surveying in the distance the butterfly stroke of torpedo rays, the crawl of smiling and mischievous bonefish and finally diving to hug one of the eight tentacles of a timid octopus…

That’s what I imagined during my half-hour of solitude in that enormous empty pool.

When I left the building, a blizzard of an uncommon force obliged the rare pedestrians to take tiny steps, with legs spread apart, in order to prevent taking a spill and breaking their necks. I imitated them walking to my house where my wife was cooking two frozen cod filets for dinner.

Ah! The route between the dream and reality is oft torturous and long.