Flash Fiction
The weather is cold and listless. The seething sea hostile and frigid, the air cruel, piercing, and pregnant with an apocalyptic volume of water vapour, a tsunami threatening to burst forth out of the strained intermolecular forces of the paper-thin, unforgiving atmosphere.
It is cold. The very spaces between the air molecules, the vacuum that is the staggering majority of the universe, the absolute nothingness that exists between two adjacent subatomic particles, even the regions of the infinite expanse of spacetime where the fields of quantum physics exhibit no curve or bend, even nothingness itself was cold. A chilling, merciless, sharp cold. A kind of coldness that is addictive. That burns torturously but enticingly, that slices the heart bitterly and lovingly. The kind of cold that gets to you. That gets to your bones, to your souls, to your memories. That chills your evolutionary desire to maintain homeostasis and leaves you longing to curl up and freeze, to submit, to give yourself up, to obey to the calmness, to the stillness of the coolness.
The weather is cold. It is very cold.