As I raced to relate a
though on paper, as if I was destroying the last limbic
spire of graphite, a thought only
emotion can preceed, of a
bundle of sounds, vision, beauty-in-one,
in a small unity not unlike ours, it started to snow. I
wrote faster, hurried my thoughts, as if it was the last snowfall of my existence as I know,
as if they were weighing me deeper instead of lifting me up
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