All the frozen wrath of nature has manifested in the dense mist saturating the air. The thick, frigid fog is the manifestation of solitude, turbulent soul, and silence. The silence. Such a mass should seem to make a sound, but there is none. The white particles are unmoved for lack of wind. Despite the terrible and awesome sight, there is a pleasure in the piercing cold of the blanketing monolith. Each nerve is prickled by the fine drops suspended perfectly on the autumn night. An ineffable surge of ethereal glee sweeps over the viewer. Being engulfed by the haze of frost is strangely comforting. Even breath does not keep its course much further past expulsion, as it joins the indistinguishable spray fixed upon the night air.