So this is what the city looks like, cold-hearted and broken down. How long you held out from the bitterness which now consumes you-bitten by the frost that changes every hue of vigor-green to white and every bit of moist joy to dust, flick-flaking it away and spitting it out. This is what you look like, tired of it here: awakened in the night to find a ceiling, too familiar. A memory which reminds you of how recent it was when once you were wrapped in the blankets cowering under the bed, crying over a stump of a tree you once remember begging not to forget you, though you forgot it.
The snow held out for almost as long as my sanity. I felt the pregnant earth, too fertile for November, shake with those same tremors in the night, waiting for the ice-tears of the clouds to brush over her. I waited. I could smell the pine-scent of longing screaming through the trees and ripping over the ridges of its own sanity. It was time.
