It’s beautiful here. Just like everywhere has it’s beauty, if you look hard enough anyway. It’s the type of place only writers would come in the winter, to lock themselves up behind wooden cabin doors in the middle of rows and rows of sprawling pines. No one would bother them, and they would never want to leave. It is so painstakingly white. White, grey, silver. The silver unearths only when the sun decides to peak out of the millions of layers of clouds. The snow glistens silver as if God dropped all the diamonds in the world into the white powder. That moment lasts for seconds, usually while you’re driving. The awe makes it hard to blink–don’t miss it.

And then the moment retires; swallowed up by the teasing cloudy sky, along with tiny pieces of your soul.

 

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