I do not fully understand this world, but I do understand some. Almost everything has its substance; some exist without it. Some exist as they are - without substance.
I am about to tell you a story about a snowman and a stone statue. They were lovers, and I want to believe they still are. But what follows is not a love story. This is a part of the substance that makes the love story itself. That should be clear enough.
This happened one winter; the night just before it ended. They were always happy, but that dreary night, they weren't; there was always a feeling of magic that bound them, but that night, the magic just won't spark. The moon was bright and the skies were clear. He was slowly melting away. He knew what was to come in the morning.
"Shall we dance? Just this time. Just one last dance."
"I couldn't."
The snowman was grief-stricken.
"Not one more?" He asked, as if the query would soften her.
"Not one more." She replied.
"Well, tomorrow, the sun shall rise bright. Brighter than ever."
"Forgive me, I just can't," was the reply.
"I know. I understand. Not one more. Not one last dance."
"Yes." She said. Firm and decisive.
"You have your reasons. There are more. I understand. Not one last dance. Not once more. The feeling. The ecstasy. The joy. Not once more."
There was silence.
He added, "You be good. Tomorrow, the sun shall wake us up. I can't wait to bask in his light. I have always loved you. With all my heart. This winter. This was wonderful. So you be good. Not one last dance, right? I would like to have one more, but I understand. You can't chill me this one last time."
"I'm sorry."
"Good night."
"Good night."
"I understand. Good night..."
