The snowflakes fell, like thousands of magical beings with wings. And as they piled high, I imagined these beings penned, like the old man Gabriel Garcia Marquez forever penned into my head, alone and betrayed, trampled by chickens and pissed on by men until the absolute white of their wings became grey with the dust and the grime of the wind and this world.
I knew then, that on various days, in various hours, and in various ways, the beauties of this life would take to the air, one by one, and fly from this world.