I am swallowed into the shroud with my camera; a wilderness turned white.

Branches hang heavy, burdened with winter. Drooping limbs ornate with stalactite ice.

This is the world without motion. Smoke sulks upward, glacial, and gathers at my feet.

As I climb, the first dregs of sunlight set the perimeter ablaze and bleed colour into monochrome, rust into chalk.

My bones are cold.

I feel them weaken in the expanse and the leather of my skin warp and wince at the whip of the wind.

In the wake of my last ascent I look outward, alone, and know of no limit to the beauty before me.

I am alive. I am alive.

This is my testimony.