It's snowing again, the gentle accumulation creates a tainted brown mess under his feet as he walks, looking mournful and stolid like a homeless soldier.
Does time really pass this quickly? Time should be longer, for surely time helps one to forget. And if time is just an idea, just like winter beauty, then he should be able to close his eyes and picture himself somewhere else.
Somewhere where things can perhaps be real, true, unperturbed. The snow could glean on the streets, white and blinding, something altogether less sordid than London's December aberration.
He tries to remember what winter used to be like, but finds that the idea of passing time has erased any fondness from his memory.
It's a start.
XxXx
As long as she ignores the muddy collection and simply looks at the sky, the very idea of snow is mollifying. She knows it's nothing but her mind's cliched prejudices, but her love is just a predilection as well, is it not?
She stares until her mind makes everything nebulous, only looking away as the sound of the door opening gives her a fright.
He passes her with a short muttering of acrimonious words; it's not much of a greeting, she thinks, but still . . .
It's a start.
A/N: Some of you might remember a story I wrote last February (wow) called 'Snow.' It's still my favorite thing that I've written, and since we're getting our first big snow storm of the year in Connecticut today, I was thinking of it. This is kind of a sequel, kind of an experimentation of my improvement. I'd love it if you read the original, because I still like it a lot :)
And, to quote last February; "Snow is such a pretty thing, for all the trouble it causes." And quite the inspiration, too.
