Real Snowflakes

If someone at college age still be cheated.

Ohanzee thought that does not include the campus he existed. Luring students by drugs or money sounds like ignorant, or part of Stockholm syndrome, or simply they are too dumb and stupid.

Professor with laziness turned off the television, next news was reporting a car accident recently. He had no interest in it, so after putting the remote controler back on the desk, he left the sofa.

Mibo had fallen into a sweet dream; outside the windows were a total darkness, which made him throw his sight into the silent black, and reminded him something that cannot be called as memory. That's kinda like a Vinyl records suddenly placed in an old house; crunching sound from the music box is no longer music but noise without sentiment, arousing his irritability.

Boring.

Ohanzee finally decided to draw the curtains.

※

You and he have no difference, sweetie, no.

This sentence can be hardly understand by children. Those kinds of soft words, represented by sweet voice cannot carved any scar in the deep soul. They even cannot compare with attached toys from fast food restaurant.

He still remembers something about England, which should be thankful for the lord of sunshine. Most of time the sky looks gray, just like prison, rain dots cover all the glasses looks like snowflakes melting, although the country is already warmer than other inland countries.

Papers that can cut fingers will be steeped into softness; the feelings when pens stab on them will like step into mud; strength is out of control, ink follows the shape of fiber, but he likes it, beautifuly.

The climate in England can make people sick, apparently; the lack of sunshine will cause illness from psycho or phyisical. Everybody knows without learning biology, but sometimes the iron gray is beautiful than his eyes, though people usually said that his eyes before rain are also briliant.

Small Leeuwenhoek would choose to write something besides the window, clammy would climb on his hands along the prison frame, makes the ink harder to spray. But it doesn't matter, it doesn't matter, he has the confidence to what he want, unlike the same age child.

He loves the prison sky, the sounds of rain that seems to erode the town away after years, everything clammy, including dry tears, or the salty rust smell.

He still remembers nowadays, his childhood was fulled of something clammy. Air, sounds, memories, he didn't take them away, he took away nothing, nothing left is warm and dry. Remnants that cannot be called as wounds are like tombstones, buried on the ashes on his father and mother, and he keeps laughing at those fake scene with fake harmony.

All the things he brought to America are all lies, happiness from the past was frized in photos. He was thinking of doing his duty of being a son of man, but ultmately they're all became boring.

Fake, fake, fake——he knows the true picture of England in his heart.

Photos of parents were burned by himself, the sensation of flame that hurts his fingers reminded him when mother touched his collar. Or that shouldn't be represented as touch? Touch cannot tear someone, cannot push someone on the ground. Sometimes he thought he was a pen, out of ink and been filled up with salty wet, but he didn't feel anything.

Ah, just like those kids been cheated, but he never ever trusts anyone, hands petting on his neck were cool and comfortable, but that cannot squeezed out his affection or his talking. The person gone crazy was mime comedy, the only thing he can do is trying to analyze it.

You and he have no difference, sweetie, no.

This sounded like accusation, accused he and he were the same, apathy is clammy, screaming is clammy, roaring is clammy. Only this sentence made him fall in love with snowflakes. Like faraway, afterimage, window sides, unfamiliar but also dazzling. He was wondering how that guy portraited by mother had how much same as him, and finally realized that everyone is the same.

Yes, he likes snowflakes, snowflakes and snowflakes and snowflakes, nights without snowflakes are boring, nights with snowflakes are fun. It is worthy to block his world by curtain, definitely, he didn't take away anything from England, but snowflakes at all places are the same.

He never thought his mother was lying to him; he spends his life to verify this fact, so that everyone is the same. Abandoned father, hysteria mother, upper class and bottom society, all the same, and he repeatedly keeps thinking of unique and not unique all the time. Then the scene of everyone holding their hands together will become glad and vapid.

His brain can be melted by words after crashing; borders between worlds will be vague; he is waiting for everybody after sublimation, so he thinks warmness slipped away from fingertips is interesting, just like everybody loves clammy as him.

That's good, that's awesome, he misses clammy, although he thinks it's boring at the same time.

Romance cannot be predicted by the loss of past and lies, time wasting but also sweet.

Of course he won't hate anything.

No, of course he won't love anything.

※

When Ohanzee woke up, snowflakes are drifted outside in the air.

He opened the window, and some of them sticked on his finger, exquisite and fleeting.

Ha ha.

He smiled slightly.

FIN.