If you snapped a picture outside, it would have been one of ice. Of snow. Of slush. Of the sort of air that burns your lungs with each inhale. Of the biting cold Robert Frost wrote about so brilliantly.
If you snapped a picture outside, it would have been one of ice. Of snow. Of slush. Of the sort of air that burns your lungs with each inhale. Of the biting cold Robert Frost wrote about so brilliantly.