Your eyes, your bleeding heart.
I knew you were an esper long before I met you; I could feel your breath from outside the province. The thick of red, it was the glossening of a repudiated life and my entire love. It stirred about in me like a magenta mist; a heaviness I thought I had long since put aside.
Still our mind beside us, our hearts were heavy anew. Still, a calamitous echo beckoned for us, as if unto a cursed mark.
Is this the afterlife? You are here, so I know there is life. By God, there is life in this land. How long have we been sitting here? I looked down, my hands now bleeding shallow ice.
Frost collected in the corner of the window as the furnace crackled, and stray gusts of wind rushed at us from the outset. The thick mist couldn't have made visible more than 50 yards yonder; fog shrouded the soft light thrown out from a few low posts and disappearing buildings, while the frosted trees kicked off drifts of snow. It was wintery outside, and also in my bones.
I wonder why some people think I'm upset when I am quiet. You didn't. In fact, the quiet was quite reassuring to me. A Russian man that stayed with me before-time helped me understand the gentle strength of the mother orient, which I only knew from Dostoyevsky. Soon after, a sage would remind me that I'm a quiet person. I hadn't given much thought to what I could hear in the silence of the night, and by then, I hadn't wanted to speak again.