The snow is coming down and everyone is already tired of shoveling.
I got out early: I ran for 20 – no, 30 minutes (“I’ll be back in twenty minutes”) before the snow started to fall down. I want to just sit here in the kitchen and wait for the elderly neighbor to call me to shovel snow: I’ll arrive, bright-eyed and full of energy, and she will thank me, invite me in (in the proper manner), probably give me hot chocolate, some cookies (which out of politeness I will eat) and, most importantly, money.
The money, the money. I fritter away my time as if I’m siphoning dollar bills through my hands, counting them for someone behind a bank as I wish to clutch them, fang-toothed. The snow gets me: it’s spending its time fluttering away like it’s having fun decorating zeppolis. The clouds know this will probably be its last shot, last shot to just have fun and not be serious about consequences (it doesn’t care about people having to shovel).
It’s beautiful, the snow, because it’s quiet. I type away on a table already white while the outside paths grow unfeasible.