Thursday

The sky was thick and grey, the clouds hanging oppressively low and the wind is showing its truculence and blowing cold. The kind of cold that goes right through a man’s clothes and bites into the skin. Bones aching, blood congealing, tendons stiffening, the body failing, as all my thoughts turn cancerous. It’s the kind of cold that leaves you wondering if you’ll ever be warm again.

The cold and the grey suck the colors out of the world turning everything ugly, dirty, and flat. If only some rain would fall, at least then I wouldn’t be choking on the dust, my skin wouldn’t be forever dry, cracking, splitting like a hot dog held too long over the campfire flames.

This must be a Thursday; I never could get the hang of Thursdays.