• It’s far too cold out here.

    It’s a charcoal affect that dances around me along with a freezing wind,
    whipping against my skin with delicate frozen particles of ice.

    But I can’t feel it.

    The world around me is an uncanny grey.
    I am blind to everything but the blurry visage of a window that seems to cover yet more grey. Only when I step closer do I start to hear the dull hum of music,
    and the golden glow of lamplight itself, which warms my face as,
    I step closer.

    The window leads to a room, very large, with the gold coming from the furniture itself,
    blood red velvet cushions, mahogany wood, twinkling ornaments of copper and painted tin;
    it has a golden glow, a warm glow.
    Arches that can clearly reflect the skill of the crafter by the masonry, line the opposite wall of the room
    and lead to an endless hallway, shrouded in shadows, that makes one assume it stretches far
    in both directions.

    There are people inside, I know there are people inside.
    I can hear the dull whisper and murmur of their voices from outside, despite the glass
    being thick enough to omit most of them.

    It seems they are out of my range of vision.
    All I can see are their shadows ever so often skimming the scarlet carpet inside.

    My face presses closer to the window.
    It has an ashy, smoky scent, which lightly burns my nose, but no matter. I expect the inside smells much nicer;
    there are multiple potted plants and small bags of popuri.
    I want to get inside.

    For some reason I am unable to call out.

    My skin is abnormally pale and my joints feel stiff,
    as if frozen in place, yet at the same time I am not shivering,
    nor can I feel anything, but a dull, bitter taste in my mouth.

    My mind throws all caution to the icy wind which whips around me.

    I only wish I could get inside.

    Daresay I would feel more welcome if only I could get inside.

    There is certainly nothing else of interest around me,
    and it’s cold out here.