The snow can be flickers of swirling fractal that whisper magic in their shimmering touch. For the pure, snow is a song of promise that clings dreamily to skin and flutters like a freed paper crane.
For the lost, snow can be pain, falling flakes counting down and smothering, biting every attempt to reach out to the sky. It can be an endless mist of dappled streams that speak only of the same story each day, an eternity trap of the mundane.
The snow can be a secret, a lover's caress that stings with longing. For the silent, snow is a glade meant only for the clouds, that drifted down to a lonely sigh from where the winter sky wanes.
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