A nastily freezing wintry night was shamelessly inciting merciless gusts of wind to penetrate him. The frost. The matter is of no concern to the frost. It aims further, much further. And deeper. It aimed for his roots, letting the wind frolic with his leaves. Ever-frozen convolutions of his brain made him feel like being gradually buried half-alive by crumbs of deadly white snow. Streets – those rows of graves with no deadmen in them, houses – those charnel squadrons of sepulchers with naïve lights inside, town – sterile pale graveyard being in its turn ironically buried under billions of white blank molecules.
Endeavoring not to pay heed to the high wind blowing at his back he struggled to resist the bursts of the gale in his face.
Irritating snowflakes. Boasting. They were too numerous. He never really enjoyed big companies. He could not see his outstretched hand but what would have changed if he could. He’d seen it before. At the end of the day. It appeared quite impossible a task to be set before him – to throw his own hand out of memory.
Too many impossibles. Too many tasks.
Boasting. Showing off. Falling on him and melting, soaking him. A scolding teacher. Not teaching. Simply scolding. Scolding harshly. Why can they not just fall? There definitely was a perfect correctness in them. Calling and screaming symmetry. Cooling transparency and vulgar tracery.
Here they are, his fingers. His lusting fingers. At last they touched the longed-for doorhandle.
R. A. O’Rayne