how is it that some can grab onto the tiniest scrap of twinkle and grow it within themselves, while others sit neck deep in a sparkling heap and see a speck of dust and their mind takes that in and grows it and grows it, till all that's left is dirt? despite their best attempts, the pile takes on a life of it's own and soon, everything looks like snow on an April day...you know the kind...still clinging to the curbs and the edges of the lawn...filled with pebbles...icy roughness...with the detris of things buried over a long winter reappearing soggy and deteriorated. how is it?