The skeletal fingers of bare trees beckon me with their white-lace gloves. The January sky, as pale as the gloves and the blank canvas around me, glows with the soft light of half-consciousness. Each breath forms a cloud that disappears as quickly as it formed, a fleeting fog that paints my vision silver for a second. A window amidst the colorless sky opens, and sunlight streams through the gap of crystal blue, forming flecks upon the ground as crystalline as the patch of sky above. If the world could hold its clarity for just a moment more, my eyes would blur my vision still, from tears that refuse to dry. But the clarity does not last, and the window is shut; if I close my eyes to remember, I can almost see the hands that reached out to draw the curtain over the invisible panes. The tears, then, do not come. I stand in a state of weariness; the light is gone yet I cannot cry. Too sudden to accept, too sudden to be remembered, was the window a figment of imagination after all? White, the winter world around me is pure white, as it waits for the window to be opened once more.