Right after leaving the Metropolitan Museum of Art, going out in the New York snow after 13 years post-childhood dwellings in which snow became my purest memory of what it meant to be a child in Brooklyn and the unsurpassed symbol of purity, the snowflakes were falling on my head, and I looked up, and I reached my gloved hand out, and time held still, and I, in my romanticism, wanted to bring down my hand and stare at my glove in a place of reflection on the beauty of the season of winter, and not surprisingly so, there was such a sweet surprise that embraced my finger, manifesting in that stillness an intricacy and beauty of this planet, and perhaps these thousands words are not all captured in this picture, but that is what it means to me.
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