It has been two days and my hands are still shivering; blue veins racing through the papery white folds in the pink skin, blurred, of the cold seeping into the marrow and spreading out seismic waves through the whole of me.
My vision is foggy, just the same that has been for years, maybe decades, who knows. And it might be this, or the cold- I wouldn't know- that everything seems blurred to my eyesight.
Only one picture on the mantle piece is devoid of the haze that has settled on my lens, or it could be because my mind has memorised it so good that I no longer need to look at it.
Or is it simply because the picture itself is of a foggy morning, the evening I remember so clearly that even the smudged lines of the lamp post and the invisible mold of the bus is easily discernible?
