It’s so cold outside, that instead of leaving my body in tufts of powdery steam, I imagine my breath drops to the floor in dull thumps; matching the uneven rhythm of my each cramped step. My muscles tense and goosebumps chaff against the stiff sandpaper of my jeans.
The city is a awash in ugly splotches of salty white. The people don’t escape this fate. The skin dries around their nostrils and lips. Chapped lips, ripped and pink with numbed pain.
Even the trees stand stiff and still bracing against the frightening wind; evil fingers ripping the skin off everything it touches.
There is beauty in ugliness. There is much to be admired in the gentle cadence of my pretty words and the rough staccato of the ugly ones.
Today it was 8 degrees farenheit, with a wind chill factor which resulted in “Feels like -20.”
It’s not a day for pretty words, warm words, gentle rhythmic words.
It’s a day for Dasvidaniya’s, the unsmiling Siberian faces and the strong, fiery burn of Vodka.
Today even the channel is shattered glass, about to break apart.
But it can be repulsive, repugnant and deliciously disgusting.
Here’s to loving it anyway…