Orange line on white chalk

A glare in the night, odd and eerie.
A mist of snow in the cold reflects the city lights.
I'm on my steps, looking towards State Street. The snow flickers down slowly, caught up by the wind. In the light you can see the flakes, in the dark they're hardly there, only the soft crackle, if it is that at all, of the flakes hitting another surface. It's cold enough that they stick.
The snow is a shimmering film, perfect and pure.
I step off the deep incline of my steps, the haze of powder envelopes me.
The single sheet of snow is interrupted as I walk through it, kicked around like the nothingness it is. It's all around me, soft. Things are quiet now and I walk through the night, the smoke of breath coming from my lips.
My chest is warm, two shirts and a coat deep, but my throat is ripe, and aches.
I feel fine but wonder if I'm getting sick. Sicker?
Walking through the night the streetlights spalsh my shadow on the snow along with their orange glow. I got both my hands in my pockets. My shadow is one fine, sharp image, but as I walk under the ornage-burning street lights, the reflection makes my shadow split. Walking in the cold coldscape, I now see two shadows, of me, splashed on the ground. And as I walk I notice that they don't come together, won't come togetherm that there are always two. Just can't get it together.
I see a snow flake fall and die on the street, exploding.
I smile. The cold feels good. I'm warm. I can't tell if my smile is noticeable. No one is out to tell. No one around. I smile.
The phone rings around midnight and it's bad. Purity has been destroyed, rape, somewhere, else where, over there, somewhere, and the Boss needs someone to walk through the snow, someone with two shadows. A dirty worker, no heroics.
I'm walking down the street in the cold.
Freezing, but I'm warm.
After midnight, I'm reminded of you, for inspiration, and I smile.
Can't do more than that today.