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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