The snow flurries in the sky like the thoughts in my head, raining beauty and sticking to the mind like a bad thought

I take a look out my window the snow is white and covers the ground like a thick beautiful blanket the sun peeking through the clouds, the flakes slowly falling showing me a sign that there can be happy endings.

Trying to cope with depression anymore is like laying on a bed of rusty jagged nails, impossible.

Every Autumn now my thoughts return to snow. Snow is something I identify myself with. Like my father, I am a snow person.

They were playing old Bob Dylan, more than perfect for narrow Village streets close to Christmas and the snow whirling down in big feathery flakes, the kind of winter where you want to be walking down a city street with your arm around a girl like on the old record cover

"Snow was falling,
so much like stars
filling the dark trees
that one could easily imagine
its reason for being was nothing more
than prettiness.