The cold seeps into my bones like a broken promise. It settles within me, crushes me, makes me cry. With icicles. Transparent, sharp, they slide silently down my cheeks and freeze before touching the ground. A voice, from nowhere, warns me not to prick anyone. I try to find its source, but reality is too abstract a painting to make out clear shapes. It falls silent. I fall silent.

The sun rises in the east, disciplined, without questioning itself. Its light carves trenches in the ice of the night. The icicles melt, become tears, become water, become nothing. I reach for my handkerchief, but it is nowhere to be found. Order is absent, drawers are chaos, socks mix unnaturally with people who don’t matter. Who aren’t worth it.

I throw my thoughts into the abyss of a glass. A sip, another world. Wood, smoke, warmth. Everything softens, like an outline drawn on damp paper. I close my eyes. Between still-fine wrinkles, memories flutter like butterflies trapped in a jar. Some would say they are prisoners. I say they dance. I smile.