time flies, on wings of fool's gold, and the year is almost over, far sooner before it began. the leaves are almost all gone, it's supposed to snow soon, and jack frost is out in force. the harsh chicago winter is upon us, this last december of the millenium, and marks this last year, well, as a blink of an eye. a mere misstep in the greatest, longest running broadway production ever. a whole year, with less than a few, with thoughts bottled, simmered, bubbled away and uncaptured by dream catchers. it's something, better'n nothing, better than butter, or margarine, but these things do go on, they always do.