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Twists, twirls and filigree. A complex dance of a fuzzy ashen breath, exhaled slowly, striving against the constant march of silver snowfall. The inky night takes on a perceived fullness, veiling the usual chasmic sensation.
The fleeting whisps dissolve the stark contrast, introducing a welcomed intermediate. This blunted world is comforting, a voice is rendered inert. A misconstrued face moves, speaks from behind it. Even bullets are harmless.
The snow will fall.
