Each frosted tree hanging in stasis, in a quiet that descends as a apparition. From the ground, the air draws deeply to sing the beaded misty shapes into being. It is a note that sounds beyond hearing, that sustains long past the fleeting breath. Even my footsteps, cracking ice on the plains of morning echo as if they are but remembrances of a long lost dream. All is still, and the world folds into a singular space, where the lonely eyes see naught but the white of a morning caught in reverie.

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