Cold, crisp, crackling leaves crunch under the light foot that treads.
Frigid, harsh, violating air is penetrated by a puff of breath.
So soft, one cannot tell a breath had been breathed at all.
The Veil of Frost slightly disturbed by the fragile limbs of Nature’s forlorn dormitory of silence.
Wicked winds whip the maple leaves while cold rain drops lick the sweetness of their death.
As a devil who feasts upon sin.
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