the snow is not sedate, it is simply inhuman

"As it has snowed all day, it snows.

As though the snow wants to prove something: that the composure with which snow can fall never has to do with fatigue; the snow is not sedate, it is simply inhuman. Like the winter this year, inhuman in every respect. Going tirelessly on, repeating itself in patterns no one understands. The dark is pale from the brightness of snow."

//

"An idea of a home, ideas on the whole; what do we need them for. There are those who make it across with us, and those who do not. It can be as simple as that, too. No bus to pick you up, no bridge built yet, only later on. A fortuitous delay or a delay hardly fortuitous at all, the fatality of a certain hesitation that is thought's expulsion from the body or the blood, the fact that one might never arrive. Those who made it across, and those who did not."

//

"It's foreboding, the way a house can be when you arrive at a late hour and the lights are out. Or early, and: the lights are out. I think I'd rather be in an unhappy relationship with someone than this: to be without someone. Without those eyes to—well, what, exactly. To give me life. All the time to bring me into being, with just a glance. Rather come into being as a stranger, someone else, than this, not to exist at all.

I am in love with the wrong man. And constantly I am leaving someone I love. A person can come unstuck, but I didn't come home for comfort.

It's about the apples. It's that."

Via here.