The world was flaked with white that hadn't lasted the season until the night before.

The snow flecked around her shoulders, the hills spreading away from her stationary place caked in a sea of soft white, blurring at the edges under the solid grey clouded sky. She wanted to absorb it; to stand there all day, all night, as long as it took to be translated in the wind, disintegrated in the fog she exhaled, dissolved like the moisture from her lips. 

They chipped and broke with each motion of the breeze, each movement of her tongue in a subconscious attempt to revive what was long gone. What had long given up.

She spent years waiting for days like this, solitude peace of mind that ebbed and flowed along the brush of sparkling water against her rawing cheeks. She wanted the numbness that would come, that cold would bring. She wanted the absence of worry, lack of life, that attended dying nervous systems. She wanted ease, singularity. Happiness.

Her eyes focused to the horizon, where trees began to become their backdrop, the white overbearing and overcoming with each gust of snowfall, whitewashing everything she'd had to bother with hours before. Moments before. 

She was beginning to breath again, as the water seeped through her black boots. Her fingers were long too exposed to be useful to her. She was a body and one beating organ unified with the clean slate before her, and the world that opened up in its captivity under water.