Another massive snow storm drags its heavy feet across the South and tumbles like a newly awakened yeti into the City, covering everything in cold, wet, icy, angry snow and a bumbling loud silence. All day, the mass of clouds hangs on my brow and pushes my muscles into a frown. My body buckles under the pressure.
It's only winter, I repeat to myself a hundred times an hour, hoping to eventually believe it is true. I want to believe that I can grow wise with the years, to see patterns in my steps across the earth and not fear monsters under the bed if they don't actually reside there. It's only winter. Soon it will pass, and you are not the person staring at you from across the mirror today.
Under the cover of snow, in the dark of the night, the words aren't very convincing.
It wears her out.
It wears her out.
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