Thoughts, dreams of people change into thoughts, dreams of ideas. Freedom, intention, good, bad - lack thereof. Illusions of the self, but most importantly of those in your immediate proximity.
The ground is covered in snow now, but the sidewalk resembles the yellow brick road you follow back home; only the color less annoying. Streetlamps smudged into a cozy glow by the fog that grabs onto each and every ray. The trees have fallen asleep in a land where everything dies for the months of winter.
Somewhere, nothing matters.
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