# england

As i sat on the train rumbling out of Nottingham, a calm, reassuring comfort gradually surrounded me. It was much later, long after i'd gotten off the train, that I realised it was the comfort of language, of actually knowing what the strangers around me are talking about, of being able to let their their crisp and clipped sibilances and consonants, slip in under my own consciousness and my own thoughts, comforting like the familiar pillow you lie on after a long hard day to ward of exhaustion and the solitary night.

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It snowed late last night, or in the early hours when I was still asleep. When I opened the curtains this morning, the ground was wet from the frost that had begun to melt, little droplets trickling from the corner of the window. I can only imagine, from the remnants of white, a little here and a little there, how beautiful it would have been had I woken up in the night and peered out into the street, snow falling gently and quietly out of nowhere. Just like how you could fall gently and quietly out of nowhere, only to leave me the morning after imagining what might have been. And before long, you too would melt away, and I can only hope snow would come again.