There's something divine in the way that the fluffy variation of snow floats to the ground, some flakes spiralling slowly and others drifting along on the bitter-cold breeze. The way that the white flakes look against the dark sky belonging to the middle of the witching hour; the sky itself a shade of deep, velvety purple from the town's century old street lamps.

No matter who you are, you will undoubtedly be filled with a blithe wonder as a snowflake falls to it's imminent doom, settling down onto your mitten. The feeling you get while walking through the night in the flurry of soft, freezing flakes is one of peace, insignificance, and yet a feeling that embodies infinity.

And in that moment, you realize that everything is muted. The snow has clung to everything it can, even though at the moment it is only a fluffy snow, not the kind good for making snowmen and snow-forts. Your thoughts are amplified and everything seems so clear, almost as clear as the little crystals that are descending from the clouds passing just below the stars.

But that snowflake's so unsettling.

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