The snow flakes fell like pom-poms. The people in the streets were cheering. The snowflakes covered the sidewalks like perpetual redemption, smoting every stain with specks of pure whiteness. The sinners in the streets were cheering. But you know those snowflakes. The snowflakes kept their distance from each other, as if they were surrounded by little rebellion bubbles, encapsulating every idiosyncratic ice sculpture that fluttered to the earth’s floor. And when they landed softly on the ground, the rebellion bubbles dissipated back into the heavens, or sank deeply into the earth. And where the snowflakes landed, that ‘s where they landed. The snowflake that landed on Lincoln street will never find itself on Clinton avenue. It is here now and that is the way it will have to be.