Imaginary snows of the year.

I could have gone home.

The house is empty, the cats will be glad to see me; there will be no voice or laughter. I will listen to the radio.

I could have gone to the mountains.

It’s not so far, an hour or so and the rain, here, there, will be snow.

I have the wrong shoes, but I can lie in the hot spring and photograph the flakes as they land on the water.

There will be no voice or laughter.

I will listen to the stream falling through the mountains.

I could have stayed in this city.

There is a bed.

There will be a voice.

I will listen to the drunks in the street.

I could have sat in this café.

I could have written all of this.

I will hear voices, a coffee machine; laughter.

And a soft and distant singer from the speaker.

I could have.

Instead.

I bought a book.