Just writing ( no one is going to read this anyway)
Down in Vestal valley, on a cold winter’s morning, lays a child in the snow. He squashes the sleeping weeds on his back, and their spring. A melancholic, sickening sun seeps through the oppressive pale sky. The lonely white hills surrounding him defuse and rise into the wandering clouds. His lips shiver and quiver, the frosty wind whirls into his mouth, crystallising his tonsils turning them into icicles as in a grotto. His neck bathes in a glacial pool of resurrected mud and skeletons from last autumn leaves. Snug in his white duvet, snowflakes veil his face, he sleeps. At his feet, auriferous daffodils surge through, out of the depths, fluttering into the air, up to the billows of clouds. He sleeps, grinning like a child who grins after having pulled a trick. He is cold. He does not hear the children crying and shouting, neither does he hear the howling cars on the highway below, his resting face shimmers in the daylight’s froth. His hand lies on his chest. An inflamed red, Kool- aid like aqueous circles his skull. He is peaceful. He is silent.
I know this painting has nothing to do with the text but its one of my favorites.