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Literature Text
Whispers of winter, frosted glass. The touch of ice, unmistakable. Prisms form before unbelieving eyes, the edge of frozen, a dainty thing. Freeform swirl there, a hint of crystalline here. Razor sharp and soft as the moon, cutting through the cold dark of a room. Splinter of the mind's eye; Jack Frost was here.
Comments2
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Very nice! The first thing you've written with Firebird, I take it? Which was, ironically, a poem about ice and frost.