A Snowglobe Existence
White swirls against thin-ice panes of glass like the insides of snowglobes. At last, winter has truly come to Philadelphia, covering cobblestone alleys and the reaching blackened fingers of treebranches in a white veil of cold sleep.

From behind the glass outside looks peaceful and pure, the falling snow hypnotic in its slow and chaotic descent, the streets serene and abandoned by the pedestrian.

The room around me is surreal in that moment, almost superimposed over itself, as if the very soul of the original room is breaking through the paperwalls.

Looking at the rooftops around me I realize I don't belong all the way down here, staring up at the billowing chimneys, I belong on the rooftops, in the clouds. All dreamers should be allowed to live in the clouds, watching reality unfold below in the streets and lower buildings, they shouldn't be allowed to touch the ground and forced to wake up.