Far beyond my reach, soaring above the wintry peaks of lurid reflection, floats a cherished dream. Deceptive though it seems, to grasp it is worth the rigid journey to the top, and so I set out willing to endure the mountain before me. My sense of longing reaches its brim upon every step. It is painfully rewarding - both agonizing and exceedingly so - to face the frigid mountain air and the despairing winds. If anything, they make me more alive - an arduous yet bearable advantage. When I turn to gaze below my feet to see all that I have overcome, all I see is white; a niveous mystery of the past that blinds the present into uncertainty. It is here I sit, with shaken head and muddled mind, that I lose my footing and fall back to the start. It is here I sit and long for that sweet embrace of the foreign sky to shine its radiance upon my skin. It is here I sit and rest beside reality mixing present with past and past with fantasy. It is here I sit, tangled in allusion/illusion, and fixate on nothing more than a cherished dream. It is here I sit. It is here I sit. It is here I sit.