snow, snow, snow
coating the world white
a winter wonderland
at my fingertips.
flurries coming down
slowly, steadily
upon the ground they rest
waiting to melt and die.
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Louis Pauzé: "We're all going to die. Write that down, miss. We don't have the luxury of a thousand years on this earth. Only sixty, or maybe eighty little years if we're lucky. And these years pass in a flash. Why not offer flowers to your spouse every night? Why deprive yourself of the happiness of making your house a home? Why resist your impulse? Daily life is the most beautiful voyage..."
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