There are days I feel I am returning from a half forgotten dream. Every moment an aching to recall what so lightly brushes the footfalls of the mind. Wisp and fragments blurred through the quickly passing scenery. The heart lives only in feeling, and presses its cryptic shapes upon my waking thoughts as delicate and fleeting as winged shadows on snow. Paths melting as the mind warms its touch upon the filaments of past. It seems only stillness can capture the likeness of such unknowing remembrances, for even breath will dissolve the feathery patterns of winter's window into the shifting longing for place and meaning.

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