On the End of Winter

by practicalspactical

Maybe winter exists for the sad ones, for the melancholy. When winter’s got its fingers in deep, these sad ones, they have a reason to be sad; while the world is difficult, at least it makes sense.

Then spring comes, with its warm breezes and the girls in their skirts, and everyone has smiles as wide as Texas, and sad-little-old-melancholy me walks the streets, while days lengthen, and wide smiles get wider, and start to wonder What the hell is wrong with me?