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The glossy surface of the brown liquid is clashing against the simplicity of the cup, exhaling slowly, steadily, in a rhythm. My ears pick up the sound of my environment, of the living, between 4 white walls, a bed and a white mug. Outside, the wind howls like a cry howled from the throat of a child. It's ugly, damn ugly, I suddenly realize. The season, with its brush, spreads a garden of icing over my window. What is the spasm of life compared to the horror I'm feeling? It snowed. My hands come to cup the insignificant source of heat that transpires to the sensibility of my nerves even through the gloves. I hate coffee, I decide, and throw the cup to see it shatter over the iron of the sink, in thin cascading mud. It's ugly, but falls drop by drop over the carpet, tainting it.

It snowed, and I suddenly find myself at the cold glass, tracing patterns over the window. My image appears before me and it's distorted, small, fragile and insignificant - a patch of lavender and a slice of engrossing simplicity. Revulsion makes its way to my throat and stays there, the bitter taste spreading through my whole mouth, like undigested parts. Short nails tear at something invisible (is that dirt I see?). They rape through the ice then blur and finally surrender. What is the spasm of life compared to the boredom I have, I have… It's cold and it snowed. The asphalt sky closed in, cropping the image in which I reside. Heavy clouds lingering in the air, much like the smell of carcasses. It's ugly. Winter, winter… cry winter birds, cry again on the frozen branches, you who will never singsong.

Inside, my name is Boris and I am 11.

But that's what you're not supposed to know. Hush, or they'll beat me. Again.

You know…

It's always cold in Russia.

I, like trapped in a movie in slow motion, pull on my leather boots. It's cold and it snowed.