Snow falls outside and it seems as though it will never stop, and on this side of the glass, in my world, there remains only black.
Black - as in the absence of color... as in the absence of all light and warmth.
I grow so bored. Bored of life and it's complexity. How I long to escape outside and find a quiet corner, perhaps underneath a tree or some cardboard, so I may sit alone and listen to the breeze and the hushed whispering of the incessant snow. I wish to listen, merely listen, and try to decipher their words. There must be a meaning to those words and in this meaning perhaps a solution… a cure to this illness which I cannot seem to lose.
I wish I could escape far away perhaps up into the mountains, desolation peak, and find a spot where I may simply sit and stare far off into space enjoying the sublime silence. And yes I would wear a crown of gold and a robe of crushed velvet.
