He walks along in the fading light of early evening. The snow is frozen in the shape of the tires that most recently rolled through here. The ice crunches underfoot echoing in his head like a freshly bitten apple. If you look closely into his eyes you might see a mild sadness buried underneath the concentration required by the slippery ground. He is in no hurry to return home with his small plastic bag full of tomatos, waxed to a bright red. The barely present wind manages to sneak into his thick jacket chilling him from outside as much as the hidden chill inside. It could be said that he hates this time of year with its cold, short days; if only he could care enough actually call it hate. Most days it is merely a mild indifference.
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