wake
It's night. I want to see ahead of me, but it's too dark. The ground appears uniform, without a way to distinguish any place.
The passers-by don't form a shadow anymore. I can't find what I'm looking for.
I don't know what I'm looking for, or where I'm looking for it.
It's winter now, almost. It was snowing earlier.
It reminds me of playing with snow as a child. We were up north and the snow piled up really high in the winter, taller than us.
Today's snow was beautiful, but it didn't stick. It's just a passing memory, each one shorter than the last. Each one meaningful, still, but there is no meaning in the meaning.
The glowing ball spins, brought to life by my hands. My finger lands on a spot.
This is where the meaning is.
No, not there.
The night makes its way to day.
The colours are beautiful, too. Yesterday's colours were also beautiful. Tomorrow's will too.
Does it matter to see one more? I'll make the next one myself.
