There is something incredibly peaceful about sitting on a white duvet, leaning against white pillows, staring out beyond white curtains and through white window panes.
Looking into a snow white covered maple tree, with winter bare crooked branches, leafless against the grey white clouded evening.
Across the alley, a neighbour's roof, covered in white snow, is interrupted by a crimson red crumbling brick chimney.
White smoke wafting away. Quietly.
Snow flakes still falling.