Snow, like a child of heaven, is clean and light. Jump down holding hands and go to the next illusion.
The green peaks are undulating, no matter how majestic they are, they still lower their heads silently, accepting the baptism of God.
This is their fate.
Outside the window, the cotton trees have shed all their colorful leaves, facing the cold wind naked. Their branches are stiff and a little withered, but they don't have to bear the heavy pressure brought by the snow. It's like a sharp sword pointed at the sky stubbornly and unyielding; and like a pair of hands, helpless and kneeling on the ground, begging for something from the sky, miserable and helpless but unwilling to give up.
"What are they begging for? Don't they know that God is ruthless..."
