55 Fridays: Fog, Metaphor, Elegy?

Her breath came in puffs, swirling like lazy dandelions before drifting and mixing with the wintry morning fog. She wasn’t the only lonely soul waiting for the errant bus; others huddled together, close but not touching, only their eyes peeking out from beneath heavy layers.

This is the winter of our discontent, she though sourly.

***

Because if I’m going to do this I’m going to drive it into the ground.

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