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Winter is a quiet time. My people have retreated into their homes, escaping the viscous cold. It’s not really the cold though. They’re hiding. But not just any hiding, the kind that is forced. Forced inside by the emptiness of our city. The desolation that constricts our throats and demands every last tear that our eyes have. The barren lots. The charred roofs. It’s so quiet. Just. Like. Winter. . I’ve missed it. I love it. That dirty snow. It reminds me that I will live. That I can make winter…warmer. I can turn the yellow sun into the rising hope that we‘ve forgotten. I refuse to hide. I refuse to let my people cry. I refuse to let them look outside and wish. They will know that soon, we will be amazing.



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