You’re up on top of the world, 52 floors above the glittering city spread beneath you. The cold wind form outside comes blowing through the round glass-less windows of this maintenance-only floor (you may not be maintenance, but your friend’s got connections). You move to a window and lean your head out, your gloved hands resting on the frozen metal in front of your chest.
The velvety black of the night provides the perfect backdrop to the brilliancy of the lights of the city – it’s as though millions of colorful sparks have been showered down on the Earth and flowed together into a continually changing lake of fire. Some of the sparks dance and twinkle, insistently claiming your attention by prancing about. Others stay still, only winking occasionally as though to relieve their real desire for spasmodic movement. Still others simply allow themselves to be absorbed into the shining mass of their neighbors.
The gauziest hint of a veil draws itself over the lights below – it has started to snow. The flakes drift about outside, going more sideways and crooked than down as they float on the currents of wind. Here they come through the windows, gently coming to rest on your coat, on your gloves, on your face. They seem soft and quiet. They seem to kiss you as they alight, bringing blessings of hope.
You were relaxed before after a long day out and about, but now you feel tranquil, at peace, each sparkle of life warming your heart, and each flutter of white caressing your soul.