I love most of Vivaldi's work, but Winter really stands out to me. Ironically, winter is my least favorite season to live in, there is something special about this piece that has made me listen to it over and over again. It has never evoked and significant emotion from me, but imagery that the music provides me is so clear that the notes could be words. The sun shines down on a snow covered village, illuminated by high noon. Birds are flitting about in an icy breeze as it rustles through the bell tower of a church and down into the streets below. On the whitened streets, bundled up villages are going about their lives, some laughing, some fighting and others alone. As noon passes and the sun begins to wane, silhouettes of leafless trees are stark against the blustering winter sky, and the air becomes still and frigid.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TZCfydWF48c

Dear sir or madam,

We have not found your written resume to match the criteria for the job in question.

Regarding the "useful skills" section, we found your answers to be relatively inappropriate. Unfortunately, the company does not consider "farting the alphabet without defecating", "reaching level 265 on candy crush", or "keeping it real" to be useful skills. Furthermore, we do not believe that anything you presented will be a useful tool for your potential job as a phone receptionist.

In the "past experiences" section, you presented a confusing set of answers that again showed us little promise that you are a fit for this job. Your answers, "tightroping the Grand Canyon without tightroping or going to the Grand Canyon", "attempting to ride a unicycle while juggling wet teabags", and "getting rejected from being the triangle player in a garage band" did not show us that you have had any experience in a similar job position, or the right experiences to aid you in learning this one.

In the "relations" section, we feel that you may have misinterpreted what was being asked. This part of the resume aims to assess the applicant's ability to effectively communicate with others in the workplace. Instead, you presented a long and confusing story about how you once fought your mom to save a spider she was going to kill, and instead placed the spider outside. The story ends with your confusion after not receiving a Christmas card, as you wonder if the spider died in the snow you placed it in, or if it is "not part of a religion that celebrated Christmas".

We hope you understand our reasoning, and wish you luck in the future.

A room crowded by darkened thought

Gloomy air transversed by sorrow

Grief stricken only one is not

A white window to tomorrow

A beacon on a tragic night

That one has found the next day

Perfumed petals are pure and white

As wings flying the soul away

The first time was the strangest

As the cool desk chilled my sides and paper tickled my feet

But I found my purpose helping the hands that held me find theirs

And upon the pages I danced

Led by the grip that warmed me

So many hours were spent

White pages no longer pure

Then there was the night I felt empty

And from me the ink no longer spilled

On the table I lay static and cold

But by purpose was fulfilled

Unclenched are winter's fingers

Into morning frost lingers

Chased by a blustering breeze

The day loses comfort and ease

Unforgivingly frigid

Toes turn numb and back rigid

Sun steps into the next room

Subjects left in flurried gloom

Rejected or torn away

The mother may have no say

Yowling into a fitful gale

And throwing down icy hale

Wind whips through jacket and bone

Eerie whistle and lowly moan

Muted is the fertile land

Worked no more by the weathered hand

Different people choose to see

Beauty, trouble or agony

Who do these feet belong to?

The ones upon which I walk

Yet to me do not belong

Beneath them a puddle forms

Cascaded from the nozzle

Perched firmly on tiled wall

Upon an unsettled mind

The watery column rains

Quickly and uncontested

Racing astride thoughts within

Inside the court of conscience

Every action must be tried

Every scenario played

Had other choices been made

Too often I see you

When not in front of me

Then in my bitter thoughts

A hot and raging brew

Ever coursing my veins

To the fast beating heart

They say each must come through

To search for forgiveness

And let go of the ire

The choice to begin anew

Belongs only to me

A pawn I'll someday play

The things you say I rue

Your presence I can't bear

As you stand before me

You clearly have no clue

What lurks beyond the eyes

Now focused upon you

You fear me in the dark

Yet I see you all day

Simply watching

As time passes away

Why I'm here

I do not know

Forced to stay

As others come and go

In gentle shadow

You've seen me before

And for a moment you wonder

Then choose to ignore

I wish you could hear me

The same as I hear you

So lonely both we are

Questioning what fate holds true

How nice it would be

To have just one friend

It seems we both need comfort

A hand I wish to lend

I feel your laughter

I see your bitter tears

So much I've wished to tell you

Over long and lonely years

Alone and together

We may always be

Dragonflies in amber

Of fate's irony

Far off I heard voices in conversation. It seemed to be quite melodic, and I realized that it was no conversation at all, but a song. A very loud song with only one note. I rustled in my sheets and practically jumped as I saw my bedroom wall illuminated in a dance of blue and red, and realized that the one-noted song was the horns of a panicking car. Bleary eyed, I attempted to view the commotion, but another hand grabbed mine and the other settled over my mouth. The grip was cool and firm as I tried to resist, but I wasn't going down this easily. I thrashed, desperate to escape, my elbow colliding with the metal bed frame. Yelping in pain, I sat up with a start, met by only blackness. Gone were the sirens and strange hands. Something tickled my arm. The sensation was smooth and soft like a kiss or a stroke of affection, but it was too continuous and too...wet. Too late I realized that the nightmare was fake, but the gash on my elbow wasn't. The sheets were soaked with blood, and my senses were slapped by the rusty tang. Everything was blood, inky black in night's darkness, and I was drowning in it. I shrieked into my moonlit bedroom as I threw myself into consciousness at last. Confused and quite unsettled, I looked to my clock to see that midnight had long since passed. And then I got up and made some toast.