The snow has melted.

  The ink is still now.

  I am cold.

  Darkness fills my lungs.

  This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience.

  There is no up.

  There is no down.

  Then the sing song of words drips into a pond.

  Creates an up each time the mirrored surface is touched.

  I cling to ripples they cause, though I cannot recall what meaning its murmurs used to hold.