It snows but it’s sunny, and the world is a tangled mess of drinkers and dreamers. Each snowflake that lands upon my outstretched hand is a gift from no one, but such a thing is a gift in itself, and it makes me smile despite my lips being cracked and about ready to bleed. Sometimes I’m the loneliest man ever, and then I write down what I’ve got to give and just like that, everything comes into bloom. Sometimes I’m a man, but only when I can be bothered. Only when those eyes of yours rest on mine and I feel the howl in my belly forcing its way up through my tightened throat. My feet though. My poor little toes. They get so cold. It’s too cold even to light a cigarette, so I keep my hands firmly clenched together in the pockets of my jacket. But what if I fall over? I’ll surely go face-first to the ground? Fuck it. Perhaps I’ll get some time off work and people will take pity and buy me things. Even better, the pain might focus my mind allowing me to channel my anguish into poetry that touches the lives of those I wish to touch more than anything. It does happen from time to time, but not as much as I would like. In the road to my left, a car skids and slams on its brakes narrowly avoiding crashing into a tree. A cat jumps into the air before bolting into some bushes, and an old woman shakes her walking stick at no one in particular. Ahead of me, someone’s front lawn is covered with a blanket of fresh snow. It’s immaculate and white and innocent and invites me over with a beckoning finger. Standing before it, I see your body in my mind’s eye and want to soil it the same way I wish to soil the perfection at my feet. Maybe I’ll get on all fours and dig my fingers in before burying my face into the freezing cold ice pretending I’m sinking my teeth into your pussy, and as those around me go about their day, this howl will get the better of my defences, and my thin grip on sanity will snap like a twig.