Morning Stolen

Pale and small - that was the world this morning.

A heavy frost had stolen color from everything.  No matter where I looked I saw the same flat silver-gray.  Passing a cemetery I noticed the bleached ground was the same color as the headstones and monuments.  The world was sick - a patient spiraling to death.

The interior of my car shrunk - closing in the way I imagine the inside of a casket shrinks as the lid is closed.  Gray frost clung to the edges of the windows - the loss of those inches of clear class accenting out how little space there was between myself an the metal frame of the car.

It was then I noticed sound being stolen. The whine of tires on macadam was muffled; the hiss of passing cars a flat, dull, drone; the blare of a distant horn devoid of pitch.

They say February is the month in which suicides peak. Perhaps that's because February is the month in which the grave calls most loudly.