(no subject)
there is something about watching the snow fall at night that makes anew old revelations. like the way the flakes seem to gather beneath the glow of the streetlight, as bugs sometimes do in the summer. or how snow that lands on your cheek will melt and fall side by side with whatever kind of tears you happen to be losing at the time. and he is thinking about these things because theyre the only rational ideas he can sustain in a mind thats screaming what happened. what the FUCK just happened. and when these ideas fall away with the snow, he begins to feel it. deep down inside his chest inside his stomach inside the soles of his shoes which have mostly worn away through various expenditures of energy. like walking. sometimes running. away from the bustle of the highway, the only sound he can hear is that of the passing cars which come maybe once every hour and the sound of the church clock which rings just as often. he can literally hear the time passing by, each moment a little harder than the next, until its almost too much to bear. and the only thing he'd like to do is tear himself apart like those clouds in the sky, letting go of that heavy weight inside. but all he can do is stand up and walk back toward the mess he has left behind. the snow rushes to the dry spot on the bench that has appeared in his absense. and as he looks away he promises himself that he will never waste his footprints again.