It's snowing outside a window, so I decided to write this really quick at one in the morning. I apologize for grammatical errors.
It was long past his parents set curfew, but the sky was bright, burning a dullish kind of red, yet still clear enough to have only been six at night. Above all other things, it was snowing, and Hoagie's mind had decided – completely of its own accord - to become the most active at that hour, by the pure idea of snow existing. His fiery head was pressed enthusiastic against the frozen window; his glistening eyes, so full of innocence, looking to the street lights with a thick hope as the inspired light illuminated each snowflake with a passionate intensity, every single drop of winter shining like crystals in the dark.
But with the lamps so did come the price of seeing the streets, dirty and empty of all life, all littered in tire tracks from days long past, and foot marks of unannounced stranger; each and every indent in the thinly veiled pile of snow was now punctuated further by how each drop of wintery ice would spontaneously melt on that asphalt area, where heat was trying to desperately to keep the streets clean and clear of all things joy. There was always a possibility of a puddle forming, murky and dark and full of spite, but the fear of freezing seemed to be enough to keep all melted water as far away as possible.
Yet, even still, despite there being areas completely void of those tiny bits of clouds, he could still see a million and one possibilities happening in front of his very goggles, all going on in the shining sun of the morning. But only one came to mind happening at night, at that very hour. But it couldn't possibly happen. The snow coverage was too thin, too easy to melt, so much to the point even his morning ideas would be diminished if the snow didn't pile on quicker than it was now.
But that was alright. His option of sitting in the Treehouse, watching the sky fall through a clouded window with nothing to keep him warm, was satisfactory enough. The sky was sleepy, singing him a cold lullaby, whispering words of comfort and magic, filling his head further with warm dreams despite the goose bumps on his arms. In the morning, it sang so soft and sweet, a melody to familiar yet so distant to his soul, you will get to write another chilling adventure in your life- one you and all your friends will share in.
And he dreamt of a million and one things, even the one that never could happen, all under the watchful eye of the midnight snow.