As I reason it, ice-pellets are something to be hurled around the kitchen when trying to fill a scotch glass, not hard little nuisances which don’t properly show up on a Black Berry’s camera. What’s worse, you can’t collect this stuff. The second it lands on anything it melts into so much nothing on the ground, evaporates really, not even leaving an evident puddle. So essentially we’re back to the ghost theme, where only eye witnesses can attest to its strangeness and those indoor, working skeptics are left, shoulders shrugging, in disbelief at the claim that, for a brief moment, the sky opened up and dropped little clinks of joy for the one intelligent fellow who I imagine stood ready, open scotch glass in hand.
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