Daily Write: Snowflakes

He sat in pine bark mulch, with his back against a stiff shrub of some kind, outside of what looked like a generic office building. Having been outside for a few days now, he realized that shrubs have a little give to them, and aren't so soul-suckingly cold as brick walls. Mulch gave off a pleasant organic smell, covering up his own odor, and that of the piss and garbage that seemed to pervade every inch of downtown.

He shifted around in the worn-out corduroy sport coat, with suede elbow patches, and tried in vain to get a little warmth out of it. He pulled the sleeves down just a tiny bit further over his bony wrists, and recrossed his arms tightly over his knees.

Every exhalation created a little fog of steamy breath in the chill night air. He was so cold, he couldn't imagine it getting much worse, and wondered if people who froze to death really knew that it was happening to them, or whether, like he, they just felt so cold that it was painful, and almost unimaginable, and then... eventually... they didn't feel anything at all anymore. It wasn't like him to cry, but if ever he were going to, this was pretty much the point at which it'd happen. Was he cold enough to cry tears of ice? He drifted off into a dream, imagining snowflakes falling lightly from his eyelashes, as time slowed, and the world faded to black.