After the crash, we float like ghosts, moving about the old main street unnoticed and silently marveling at the high pitched roofs and tall windows of these old houses, taking in the glow of warm light of the interiors. The long incandescent puddles projecting out through the panes onto the thick blanket of silencing snow create such contrast, we half expect them to melt it. But they don’t.
We don’t feel cold but assume we must be, knowing that we can’t cross the thresholds of these sanctuaries against the night.
e daggar art: THE MUSEUM 
The top of the image here, looks like two thighs almost cut and pasted onto the image. I love it, and your words. x
Thanks so much Lucy!