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July 12, 2003
Voices immortalized in the eve of Winter's mighty chill. Her kiss lays red on my nose and leaves me shaking on the inside. She tickles the branches of the trees and plays with my hair, leaving my face exposed. My eyes feel like glass forced to stay open for fear that they will be frozen shut. Her work is remarkable. How she makes life in what appears dead. And each time I speak in her presence, I am reminded of how my words are real. Objects don't have the power to hurt or to heal, only people can do that.