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The cold winter streets always were the sole solace of my troubles. I'd like to believe that they captured the essence of loss, but I'd be a fool to think that my affection towards the undamagable was anything other than an outlet for my anger. Walking would burn it, and the cold could chill my face. The dimming fire from within would eventually die down eventually, the movement of my hands didn't match the movement of my feet. The color seemed a little off too. Strange, I never noticed that my footprints were red.