Written vaguely, as the ideas were abstract even in my own mind.
He knows he should not be doing this.
He stares out the open window of his car.
His glasses lenses fog up from the bitter cold.
From up above, an icicle cries a tear upon his face.
The icicle's generous offering drips down his face.
Chills his spine.
More icicle tears, and then
the silent fingers of the dismal cold begin to choke their way through.
Whispering in his ear.
Gaining his attention.
You should not be doing this.
Steely fingers grip the steering wheel.
Silver fingers of ice begin to strangle his neck,
slicing off the flow of oxygen into his evil dreams.
You should not be here.
Another drop of icicle brings him back to reality.
Wisps of cruelly frigid air cut at his mind.
I should not be here.