Snow Post

I apparently love taking pictures in the snow. The snow is always the same regardless of year, however, every time I see the snow, I get a different feeling based on personal circumstances.

Such images mean the world and are so insignificant compared to it. The first snow of two-eleven is all about possibilities, and possibilities do not bother themselves with caring. The snow will wax philosophical on its falling while philosophy does not notice:
The snow loves to fall as much as the falling loves to be in snow's form as much as the love enjoys being between snow and its falling.

Every snow loses its meaning as I forget its context. Every flake remains as beautiful, but I do not remember why.
Every snowfall, I remember, but I do not know if I remember the same.

This has been a simile for a feeling from a distant memory that I assume was in a dream that I saw on television.

I wonder if these photographs will make me wonder similarly in the future.