And with all that white, what can you do but drown in the imitation of warmth? So bright, yet unforgiving; a pale triumph of gods wishing to stamp out life and begin anew. How can you feel whole when you are born again, just to relive every trial? The journey for self-righteous winters hangs on the boughs of my family tree, singerless, and in the middle of the coldest season, I am searching for the song you’ve sung in my dreams, falling gently against me like snow.