It falls gently onto the ground, with no specific path. One by one the flakes add up until there’s more of them then there are me. I reach down to disturb the peaceful landings of so many. My hand curls at the repercussions of the cold, but yet I force my hand down further into the pile, the sensation claws and scrapes up my arm leaving behind an iced feeling. Yet I push down more, asking for, no begging for the flakes to take me down. I bury my feet and legs into the deepest drift I can find and my toes curl away from the cold that nips at them, and yet I stand as still as the dead in their graves. I can’t help but to scoop some up and compress it into a ball, taking away the shape they had fallen down as. My fingertips begin to burn with a desire to be warm and yet I ice myself further. The burning slowly crawls its way up my forearm and into my spine where it takes safety. Anchoring down bone by bone I feel it tighten its grip on my body and I give in embarrassingly fast to the feeling of euphoria that quickly follows it. My cheeks quickly freeze up and my fingertips turn a deep blue, begging for air. My heart begins to race as I feel the shiver inch its way into my chest, and slowly make its way down my back like there’s nowhere else it’d rather be in that moment. The snow calls my name gently, to remind me of humanity and its sensitivity to temperature, as if I’d just cut down my forearm all over again.