Snowfall.

By Engel.

To stare out the window at night and see the snow falling is deemed one of the most beautiful sights by most people. I gaze at it now, and must agree. The street lights cast an orange glare over the roads and houses, the black night surrounding all everything with the disguise of darkness, uniform in it's velvety cover. The snow reflects whatever passes, leaving a Halloween colour setting to the winter scene. How wonderful it would be to see snow like this on that fateful day of October.

I watch the pitch descend upon the perfect flawless glowing snow before me. It's powdery and white, and moves just like cocaine. Lines of it spread across lawns, horrible addiction to snorting cold blasphemous ice particles declaring the bliss of absence, the obscenity of hallucinations. The snow seems too pure to be real, it's only a cover, a hiding place for the ugliness inherent in the world. The rhythmic scraping of shovels fills my ears, shredding the skin off my body with each painful stroke.

The coca-snow clumps together, mashed to the ground with heavy treads of ignorant passerbys. I wan to rant at them and curse them for destroying the pristine beauty, as beauty is the only thing of value in the world, but I cannot leave. I will watch their adulteration of my snow, and see the items that it's frosty demeanour had hid from view: the dirt, the glass, the piles of shit and urine, of vomit and bile, every living ailment shown through patchy glimpses in the snowdrifts.

The wind whips the flakes about like dandruff, like greasy pieces of dead flesh that are always falling from your body. Orange and yellow snow, some lime green and from what but the use of such beauty as an outhouse, the degradation of cleanliness in it's purest form with acid and animal. To kill those responsible for the destruction of the snow, to protect the snow would be so kind. But the lack protection gives the innocent victim snow vulnerability, the opening to abuse so welcome.

I cannot bring myself to mar the snow but once, one attack from me and my sadism will be complete. But what of another snow? Would I harm that too? Am I a monstrous madman, to destroy that which I hold so dear? The beauty so pure before now dirtied and depraved, my own insanity driving me to continue it's torture, the wondrous snow now so pathetic, a glimmer of it's former glory, now corrupted by the world as all innocents are. So imperfect, I cannot add. Nor can I allow this to occur again.

The streetlights go out, the bulb a darkened reminder of flaw, of how late it is in the bleeding snowfall.

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