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The snow falls thick and fast as if it’s in a hurry to blanket the earth in white. It’s way past nine at night, but many college students are bundled up and playing in the snow. They holler and laugh like little kids and it makes me glad. I watch the frolic from my high window, a smile on my face. Some dash around—tossing and evading snowballs in turn, others are rolling huge balls of snow around in preparation for the grand building of a snowman or snow fort.

There’s a pile of snowflakes on the windowsill. I can see them in the lamplight, each glittering with more beauty than even a diamond.

I remember the first time I truly saw a snowflake—I could see its crystal pattern and was amazed because I thought such things could only be seen through a microscope. After that I spent nearly every winter examining snowflakes, putting them against a bit of black fabric from my craft drawer so I could see them better.

I want to be outside playing, but I don’t know anyone out there and I don’t want to get cold. So I remain inside—safe and cozy and wishing I was outside. It’s a faery wonderland out there. Oh if only I had the guts to brave the cold!

The brick buildings have a thick layer of snow on their roofs, the trees are bushes and grass are thickly covered in snow, and the lamplight makes all come alive. I am alive, but not really.

I am trapped inside.

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