Mood Setting

Last night.  Big, flaky white chunks, mixed with drizzling rain and a cold, cold wind.  The black roads and the white dandruff blended together and made an ugly, brown mess of dangerous colors.  The trees bore the weight of the snow, minutely bending from the additional forces.  The dead, flavescent grass was buried by the cold mass, softly covered up by a giant, endless blanket of white.

Last night.  It began with a tickle in the back of my throat, not painful, but not pleasurable.  My eyes burned and watered, an oxymoron too true to doubt.  The dry, barren desert of my face begged for moisture, anything other than the leaky eyes, but I gave it none.  The tickle turned into an annoyance, a roadblock in my throat.  Sleep, thought I, and things will be better.  But Sleep was no friend to me.  The man came not readily with his dust of dreams, and when he did arrive, he sprinkled too little on my eyes.  I awoke sometime in the hazy hours, with my throat on fire and a cough in my chest.  Sleep…

Morning.  Snow is a lonely and cold thing.  How easily can its blanket smother?  Verily, the blanket itself provides no warmth, only faux comfort and shivering bones.  With it comes death.  A ceasing of existence for things caught beneath the deadly sheet of white.  Somehow, though, there’s a type of beauty in it.  A magnificence from the blinding sunlight reflecting.  The uncorrupted and undisturbed mounds and their sense of serenity.  The spherical men, made from loving hands and happy hearts.

Now.  A rubbing blob of red discomfort, reminding me with every swallow that it’s still there.  Tired, heavy eyes.  A dry, dry nose.  A face that feels like paper.  A lack of respect for Sleep and his selfishness.  A nice, hot cup of Earl Grey would be welcomed with open hands and a happy heart.