Steam is raising from the cup of tea. Her cold fingers punching on the keyboard, occasionally brushing over the raised bumps on her skin. She looks outside. The sun seems weakened, given power to gray clouds, feeling old and cold. The green leaves resist the loss, persist in imposing the power of life over the coldness of the Earth. She can hardly hear any chirping coming from the bushes. She feels an urge for the warmth of a fire.
There is no steam raising from the still cup of tea.