Prisms flash off icy sputum hawked by an angry sky, every spicule as sharp as a butcher’s blade. Glowering clouds bunch their eyebrows as tongues of fog lick at windows. Tiny people below are hunched against the fingers of chill sliding inside their collars, nipping with delight as they slip from fog to building to sidewalk. Their movements, jerky as old movie film. Lethargic light cannot penetrate the gloom. It is a day for a good book and a long nap. A day for inertia of body and soul alike. Suck sweet chocolate between the teeth, wrap up in cozy blankets, burrow down, emerge only when the mood is gone.