His tuxedo plumes immaculate against the disorderly swirl of snow. He does not sing. He does not fly. He need only stand, with baffling silence, ready to endure the storm. Above the howl of the wind, there is an Eocene echo of blizzards anticipated, but not felt.
His veins course with fire of which he knows nothing. Ancient dusky eyes, as old as the first frost, can only see an endless whiteout. And yet, his wild soul bleeds flames. His heart is charged with all the fury of the luminous sun. His exhales are magnetic and each breath tickles the sky with aurora-like currents.
Wholly unaware of the heat he posses, he foolishly waits, expecting to freeze.
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