Character: Grace Horton.

One day my mother was hit by snowfall, strong-strong, at the end of October. I took mom's hand and gave her one glove.
I like to look at snow-white clean world, the snow not yet touched us - people who haven't managed to fly to wet roofs, creaky window frames, such as it is seldom seen. And mom hurried me. "Come on," said, "very cold", then I looked at her and saw even more stars. Her eyelashes-moths like night lights, flinched when the snowflakes driven by the wind, flew into her face. And I know, if you look closely you may notice that the mother always trembled, quietly shaking.
In fact, mommy was afraid of nothing, was fearless. Fearlessly threw their children to then just as fearlessly of losing them.

Nightmare, nightmare, nightmare, nightmare.
I put it in his pocket and hauling himself by the collar in an ice house. There's even more of a nightmare, where all the walls are saturated with it, though, and quickly. There you can cast shadows on everything: on mugs without handles, pens with no caps at my hands and my mother's limp hair to life, frozen in the doorway, sobbing quietly so that the ears lays. There, you throw millions of shadows, and I'm just one - a skinny, with long fingers and always messy hair, sticking out in different directions.

Peddling their eye on the street lights, shivering, blurred like beacons. I see only the snow, only men, only sleepy person. if someone closes us all eyes with his hands, and we walk, slaps through the puddles, through the snow, on the graves, not noticing the difference.
And its not.
There under the black mounds only of the body. no one else.

The whole world - tears when you left.

Look, this world is so empty, look, it's so quiet, but still it is not enough. maybe just because he is neobyatnoy nowhere. endless. and we are not, we are probably even more. only different, you know?
Look.