The air is full of the stimulus of ice crystals.
The foraging of cold, clawed hands.
The gloom is aglow with the dawn, forcefully strict and unimpeded.
The clouds, in this respect, are like seepages of accidental contamination, whose impetus is driven by the anonymity of slow motions.
The coldness casts a spell of stillness over everything.
The air remains a mystery.
The world is seen through a spectrum of autumn divided into pure elements of visual sound.