There is a city where the streets curve and entwine and fade like wisps of chilled breath. Through the white snow these dark veins run, carrying boys on bicycles who slip envelopes underneath closed doors. Inside, teardrops smear ink, running in streams down hands, pulsing with energy lost for years and feelings unearthed. The boys keep riding, past windows and in the reflections of the eyes of the senile who look out of them. But those with hair like white swirls of snow in the wind do not see them, they see only echoes, blurred and distorted images after they have left. The images mingle and diffuse, becoming tendrils of what once was real. The same happens to those without fading minds, but instead through a spell of time which only the letters can break. Their reflections are fleeting though, and the boys must continue to ride through the streets, pushing through the snow that constantly falls.