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My fingers poke through the tips of my cut off spidey gloves. They are burning cold in the icy wind.

I envy the narrator's furnace. It's always raging, even as he leaps from the car, thrusting his voice into the sultry sky as she dances for him.

She swirls like a winter tornado of solar green ribbons, untying herself into a garden.

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Aurora Borealis over the ocean in northern Iceland. This photograph is not altered or edited.