Another Snowy Day

Currently listening to:
I Was a Landscape in Your Dream
Of Montreal

He was the sort of boy the cold clung to, like a pretty girl draping her arms over his shoulders from behind. The sort all boys fall into. His jacket is an adequate shield, but she slowly sinks in anyway, given time. The moisture within him bubbles up and out, intermingling with snow which blows back onto his eyelashes and stitches his eyes closed. Blind as the first day in his world, though perhaps more so; more drained and flickering, moving as a mummy. And poor cold, the girl that clings to the sort that can be clung to, is left alone. Shields have been reinvented and shelters have gone up that constantly provide warmth - places she cannot survive in cut off from her whole. So she waits outside a building entered by someone she was with, waiting for another. Always with someone new.