Inkwells.

I don't want to sleep tonight. I want to take a walk in the falling snow.

...there's no snow...

I want to lay in fields of green-turning-white.

For some reason, all the world is alive tonight. I guess the cold, in a strange, invigorating way, breathes life. La vie.
The wind picks up. The windows shake.
Loud, though. I guess I won't hear the dawn break.

I cannot bear it any longer. I dash outside.

Neighborhoods with sporadic trees. The world pulses. The rhythm of la vie. The rhythm of my pulse. Together, just one beating heart.

I throw my head up to the sky. Clouds of ink float above, quietly. My breath catches.
And strangely, slowly, all around, I watch the snow fall to the ground.
Each silent flake is like a drum, beating out an ephemeral cadence.

Morning light upon the clouds. Drops of light fall to the ground.

The drums are still beating. Puddles of light ripple from centers of gold.

I never heard the dawn break.