My inability to confront the old racist failed actor is distracting me. I decide not to tell her about it.

It's

dusk

in a snowy forest and I'm playing with a fox.
It bites my wrist but there is only a dull ache.
I feel that it wants to say sorry but can't. I die.

She closes the window. I wasn't paying attention anyway, I'm getting cold, and the birds are nowhere to be seen. I go inside.

Above and behind a window opens and a cigarette hangs out.

One of the birds shoots out of the tree.