Snowfall. It sours with age, and ages all things until sour. Snowfall beckons laughter for the child, for the adult it emboldens the call of the indoors, and the great and vast, untapped frontier of sleep. It beckons the sharpening of evenings; thoughts of the outdoors, the paradoxical chill one feels before the fireplace, cuts in the stomach and heart and eyes. In those sordid nights, all the comprising household elements, forming a silent orchestra, play a slow tune repeatedly: "Hanging on", the song of knife and cutting board, drawers and the rattle and shine of their knives before artificial light, as though crying out against the rude awakening by the friction of the drawer's interior grooves, the invasive light as they are yanked from sleep - thoughts like these phase out after a while, as the absence of people, at once expressed by the childish personification of objects and the intuitive groove of speech-giving unto household pets, makes sour the fruit which consists of its own desire. Which is to say: that silence between words exchanged by friends, and the purgatory state of anticipation between meetings, is itself the joy. It is the ripening of that bright sun, which if left too long, expires before the amassing influence of that silence between words, and withdraws its heat. The osmosis of alone time from one day to the next, until the calendar is permeated with a permanent silence, and the very air sickens with sullen stagnation.
