The snow and rain is appropriate. Everything is grey and wet, muted tones and muddled sound coupled with the impersonal mood that permeates everything. No faces, no names, just dry eyes and tightly wound scarves, soaked mittens and a shuffling step to ward off a slip or fall. The funny thing about a small town is how quickly word gets around, how fast rumor travels. It’s hard to hear yourself described, sometimes - tough to recognize that you were being foolish all along. I realize now that I was really hoping for too much, and that my expectations are better suited for Hallmark cards and this childish journal that doesn’t really amount to anything. It’s a new pair of shoes but the same old path to walk. It’s the shifting sea that never really changes. It’s seeing all those butterflies were only moths all along.