Vascillate
Popular theory stated that Spring had indeed Sprung, but she couldn't help but feel mild bemusement tinged with her sense of personal tragedy as she looked out over the river during her morning commute.
Or at least, what she could see of the river. There was a solid, wintry gray wall of fog taunting the entire city from about halfway across the bridge. The repressive haziness continued all the way north to her workplace.
She couldn't see the tender Spring colors asserting themselves in the landscape. Her fellow commuters had all sunk back down into layers of woolen browns, blacks, and grays. Shockingly pale kneecaps, anklejoints, and collarbones retreated back into the warmth of cavelike clothing.
The weathermen all promised a return to sun, to life. She warily eyed the flat sky and felt the smallest flicker of hope.
She's wearing Midnight Mass to match the weather.
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