Snowy winters left an ache in his heart.

Abdul Faesal shivered and watched askance at the icicles that hung from the tree tops, the facades of sky high buildings___eerie ghostly figurines, waspish floating bobs that added to the melancholic atmosphere that hung like a thick Persian carpet all over the wind swept atmosphere.
Looking at the thick sheets of icy growths that had sprouted all around, at the heavily layered all white movable and immovable apparitions that met his mist laden eyes at every turn that he took left him with a deep gnawing void, a searing emptiness that sprang from his innards and seeped through the bodily contours, leaving him with a cold dampness that only helped heighten his overpowering sense of loneliness.
Life, it seemed, was an unfinished painting, pure white, as if an artist had dropped his brush even before she could daub the canvas with multifarious colours.

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