In the depth of winter, particularly in dowdy conditions, the definition between night and day merges quite confusingly. I tend to find myself ignoring the clock and rather staring out of a pane of glass at a universe turned topsy-turvy sufficiently to make and chance of regulation sleeping hours a forlorn hope.
Snow fall is eternally captivating, whether the flakes descent slow, or in a blizzard, in the morning, afternoon, or in glistening moonlight. As the ground disappears under its fresh blanket of fluffiness, I am captivated by the harsh gentleness of the image.
Everything looks prettier covered with snow, dash the inconvenience, the sight somewhat warms the heart against any biting chill. The first footprints will be as offensive as an abstract splash of graffiti across a masterpieces canvas.
We all know the thaw must come, but in its spoiling of such pristine perfection will cruelly tear our hearts asunder.