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A time for every color of your past, the silence of what is too insignificant to last.

Woke up to the dry howling of the wind and thought about how we lost the sun again today. Cussed at the making of the Universe, the Earth and the cosmos, and the distance between the planets and the stars, this distance which makes it easier, or harder to go on, for us small creatures, …and at the frail making of my bones, which never loved cold, but which have always been loved by it. It found a space to thrive and dwell, to tell its stories once again. About how structures of this plane crack inside and lose their shape under its weight, how the light travels faster, the minutes grow longer, and love gets easier, because in these silent times there are not so many directions to take so easily anymore. “You’re not welcome here”. But the cold is always deaf.

Slowed down by the weight of my clothes and my thoughts, I roll my steps on the salty ice dust, to meet my brief destiny of today. The cold now sits on the branches of this plane, ruling the morning still, stretched like a thin, poisonous, invisible octopus over the trapped memories, inside the evidence of the past warm rays.

The road ahead changed overnight into a white mystery, a visual spectacle for an audience who will never get the pains that make it. A rare chance to experience the frozen energy field around each and every leaf, the trace of the blizzard stamped on the trees.

Eternal paradox of the snowflake melted by the very warmth of the joy it brings.