Snow lays white in the sun. Its hard glitter signals biting cold in juxtaposition to the hopeful colored sky. Under this blue dome lies an enigma—a house inured to the surrounding brightness. A house out of phase. It knows nothing of this cold spectacle. It is protected in a shroud like an English graveyard on a darkening hillside—half-lost in a gathering mist. Entombed there for some time, eventually, you choose to raise your arms and dig upward and out of your bereaving chamber. When morning finally comes, you cross the funerary grounds. You leave the iron gates wide open for you shall return here. But for now, the morning sun dispels the fog.