It's merely a formality. Almost as if you are writing your own life page by page, word by word. Each day that passes you can only hope that somehow, any of it makes sense one day. Lately, the outlook becomes darker and darker by the day. But does this mean we are confined to running desperately through the snow? If you listen you hear the soft crunching of it. So violent, yet so peaceful. It is the eternity we fear, yet embrace as home. But, what choice is there anymore?