outside was dark, snow drifted, wind sung, hustling through cracks in the old house. he sat with a bottle of scotch and stared ahead at the fireplace which lay dormant. part of him wanted to go grab his phone and hustle up some mistakes, the more dominant part wanted to be alone. whatever his demons they were fabricated, nothing in his life merited the pressure he felt in his chest, the recurring feeling that had him shut the world out. it was the thought of putting on a face and mustering the energy to entertain, nothing ever really seemed stimulating, it all seemed a little stupid. but then what was this, whatever he did alone, numbing rather than accepting and dealing with things. he picked up a book and began reading, his mind elsewhere, slowly plodding through pages as distraction messed with flow. after so long he just watched the snow, illuminated by the streetlights, fall. watched the chaotic mess of tumbling water, frozen into solid and completely at the whim of the wind. he felt closer to the snow then than much else, a bit out of control, a little frozen, able to see as he fell but not able to decide on which ground.