There was something wrong. We were all restricted. I went through a line for food. We each got a container, some two containers. We each had brown rice and meat. I was sneaking through the city, frightened and dirty. Dream time changes. There is more color--the green of grass, and I am walking among broken columns. My writing teacher is here. I wish to avoid her, so I am walking among the grass, picking flowers. Violets with thin, thin petals on stems long as my arm. Then, I know she is watching me, so I paint. It is a beautiful painting, but it is not an original. Somehow, it has morphed into the Mona Lisa, and I know I have failed.
My sister and I went bike riding today. Cold. I wore a read wool sweater, and the wind cut through sometimes, like pieces of ice on my arms. Started out at perhaps 1:30 PM, when the sun was still out, a dulled yellow sunlight, as though the wind were blowing the light sideways. An hour later, among leafless, stark trees, the sun disappeared. Peering into the sky, we saw stormy clouds moving away, all in one narrowed direction, like they were sucked away, my sister said. Like into a black hole, I said.
The cold began to seep into my thin purple gloves, three fingers on each hand going numb. Uncomfortable and cramping. Then, what I dislike the most--my big toe was going numb.
When we first entered the trail, birds were chirping on the dead ground and taking flight among the naked branches. After that, inside the trail, it was quiet, hushed, broken by few lonely walkers here and there. Many beautiful dogs.
We came to a frozen lake and approached by foot. We struggled through stiff yellow grass blades tall as my shoulders. We stood on the icy, muddy edge, looking upon a white, light blue lake. The edges of the lake was uneven, gentle waves frozen.
We turned our tired, cold bodies and went back home.
She walked along the cracked sidewalk, hands shoved into coat pockets. So cold. She had passed the wounded body of a rodent, curled into the gutter. The bleeding body had quivered. She passed it. She wished she had taken a rock nearby and killed it. Just a sharp blow to the head and that's it. No more pain. Too late. She's reached her apartment. Up some steps. Opens door. Warm now. Dark. Maybe tomorrow. If it's still alive tomorrow, she'll take that rock and end it.