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A man stands opposite my car.









The snow doesn't help.










It's snow that innately knows it's snow. Snow that distinctly knows it's in my way.










A conscious, bitter, resentful snow.
Conscious of the properties it possesses, the realms it inhabits, the unrelinquished apathy it brings.










The man, tall, wears all grey winter wear.
He matches the colour of the sky, but refuses to blend in.
He moves slowly towards me.










He’s the only person I’ve seen around. I assume myself to be his only target.
I do not recognise him, but I know I’m not allowed to care. I’ve got somewhere to be.










The snow brings a reserved silence. The world mutes itself, sound only existing in soft, ephemeral bubbles.
The world loses itself to the snow, as the man breaks into a stride.










He is angry.

He is aware.




His mind fills with a rage and frustration


a hatred and resentment


a volatile and tangible madness


He feels an uncontrollable need to bite back, to exclaim and affirm that he has control.
I try not to grant him this affirmation, but I see the look on his face.
I see the anger he presents, I see the frustration he exerts. He does not know what he is feeling.




My car is stuck in the snow. The engine snores while I pray for its revival.
Faced with the stranger approaching me, I rearm the ignition again. The car feels my desperation.
The man will come, touch me, and unravel me for what I am.
I am not safe here.




The car chooses life, salvation, and returns to me.




I have never felt such pure adrenaline.




I drive.




The man falls to the snow. His body will freeze there.
He needed warmth, I tell myself. The heat of the car, the heat of another. He just needed heat.










I keep driving, though I have told a lie.




I have never been safe here. Unfortunately, here, this world is all I have to inhabit.




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[[







I drive through the snow.









There is a sense of an invisible rupturing — the streets are empty, the lights are off. In snow, there is eponymous anonymity dousing the world, flooding the basements, caving the rooves.



















As I drive, I smoke. It’s not a habit, it’s not a niche stylistic choice.









It’s a vice of unmitigated anxiety.



I am conscious of this reality. I know it for what it is. I let the hypothetical smoke ruin my hypothetical lungs, because that’s enough to keep me hypothetically occupied. I do not want to let go, as this reality is my comfort, it is me. I want to exist.



















I seek relinquishment on my own terms. No man, no god, just me.



















The snow trails behind me. It’s already trailing in front of me. This part of the world gets buggy. Poor connection from the distance, namely. I am looking for my friend, who has lost the most important part of them.










I do not know how long this will all last.










Carey waits at the end of this road. In the house they have built for themselves, I will tell them we will look for Amon. I will lie to them, but I don’t think they can sustain themselves much further.










They were not designed for long term use. You can smell them burning up. It flares the circuitry, it wrecks with the stars, and ruins the weather.










This snow is turning to smoke. They are a friend, but they will bring the world down with them. The choice will be theirs to make. Live in human ignorance, or continue living as an isolated unit. I am only here to bring them back, to return the system to a whole.










I am only doing what I know I can do.










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