He opens the window, lets in as much January as he thinks he can handle.
A few stray flakes blow in off the outside sill despite the apparent midnight stillness.
He watches them melt on the desk top, imagines how the room would have filled up the night before, when the wind howled up the side of the hill and the snow fell so heavily he couldn't see across the yard to the single bulb burning in the woodshed.
He opens the journal and starts to write about snowfall, imagining a whiteout stretching down the hill, across the state, encompassing every home everywhere, blotting out the moon until the moon-invisible-sets, then blotting out the sun for days or weeks on end.
He fills up page after page trying to overcome the mounting white, but each new page only adds to the accumulation and, no matter how much or how fast he writes, there is always just more white outside the window, inside the window, and on every page he turns.
He turns out the light, closes the window, closes the book, and thinks about going to bed. He closes his eyes, tries to imagine the end of white.