There was something quite odd about her love of crisp, cold days, especially the ones touched by a feeble watery warmth, which spilled down from skies of winter blue.
Perhaps it was the remoteness of being that appealed to her.
Sitting in a deserted park, surrounded by the towering trees, bare and desolate, their leaves long departed and now left decaying on the brisk ground. Even the flap of wings from startled sparrows, darting between bare limbs and twisted branches did little to interrupt the tranquility of this solitary moment.
Where Sev found herself, as she often did, writing endless poetry in fluid pen strokes; her fingers frozen, as the bold black words fell upon the pristine pages of a battered, leather bound journal. A wispy trail of bluish grey smoke spiraled up from a dying joint carefully held between sullen lips.
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