(WE CAN BE LIKE THEY ARE.)

Nothing is quite so abominably appealing to my aesthetic preferences as snowfall. It is impossible for me to see a snow covered landscape without connecting it to idyllic images of peace, and of home. I love to play in the snow; make snowballs, -angels, -men; I love to walk in the snow, and gaze at the serenity about me; I love to watch the snow as it asphyxiates the chaotic discordance of life with its unrelenting immaculate drapery. There is a calm instilled by this weather phenomena that seems prevalent over the entire world... I could stroll outside and instead of the "Alexandria lullaby" 0f sirensong and thugs laughing raucously around an elderly, rusted BMW, and ghettochild screaming to the ether over the lightsaber his comrades have confiscated, there would be quiet. Just myself and the snow. The sound of feet packing snow into a hardened layer of icy as they trample the majestic blanket is the sound of a mother flipping out her son's freshly done laundry so she can fold it and put his shirts away, only trapped under shoes. The smell of the air is the scent of the battlefeild on the one-hundredth anniversary of bloodshed. The purity of vision recalls Christ, a corpse upon which the hopes of hundreds would revolve. And the sensation...
Well, the cold is entirely its own.
It does not snow frequently here. Back in my old hometown, there has been probably a cumulative full week of school cancellations due to weather. Now, snow comes almost as rarely as it did in my childhood, in the poorest neighbourhoods of Houston and Dallas. But it is here now, and I have my curtains and blinds drawn, and a view of a treebranch leaden with the surreptitious equaliser, and a warm apartment, and a definite possibility of another day to utilize to work on my extended essay, and all is right as...
Well, you get the picture.