i would liken it to a submerged city yawning beneath tousled sheets, blanketed and safe. how peaceful it is to live a muffled life, watching the fingers of snow claw at windowpanes, carried away by the unforgiving wind. i would liken it to an empty house, la maison vide c’est la mort, dying slowly fading away with sagging frame and downturned façade. like the neighbourhood cat who, on his seventh life, knows very well that living sometimes means dying slowly. i would liken it to the three a.m. city street going somewhere, nowhere, carrying degenerates and dreamers alike to their destinations (who despite popular sentiment, might be cut from the same cloth), only in the night becoming a guiding star.
yes, that is how it feels, and there are no other words to explain it.