There were no flowers, there were no greens; but dead pine trees and crickets’ shells, crunching beneath ankle boots and red scarves and carrots staining the white sea. No meadowlarks, no bees. Not in that dreadful cold at least.

Dead in the water, chromatic sparks flood that morning’s white. It was December, so frosty the entire lake of Sapporo stood still, acting like glazed windows to the baby blues aloof. Just along it’s rim and a couple of neglected fishing boats was one odd and rustic miniature clock tower, ‘cherried’ on top a forest of ragged wood as if some masterpiece of a mischievous toddler. Round and round up, tangling through the wooden sky scrappers and up again circling the crooked and grubby roof top were Christmas lights—what reminded me of the Christmas tree—blew a spectrum of liquid crystals into the air, dangling through space and time as white feathers melt along them, so brilliantly.

All too often bells were heard, jingling melodies across the zesty skyline as umbrellas twirled ahead. It wasn’t raining, but blowing cats and dogs. Carefully stamped letters not to be sent flushed into the atmosphere like tornados kissing Big Mac wrappers and formed a huge whirlpool in the air. It was uproarious having stressed pedestrians bowing 90˚ to each other so as to press on their wrinkled ear muffs down while performing foot anchorage as fresh newspapers and classy leather gloves flew about; yet, spectacular in an ironic way that it was a stunning sight to see— snow beads and millions of colourful papers dancing in the sky.

Despite the squinting of an eye just to cross a street, a magical spirit brushed up the beautiful blunder as ‘Chestnuts Roasting on an Open Fire’ tinkled once more and again, and again. Up the slope towards the clock tower, faint voices starts to ring; and if you peeped into its window you would see, thousands and thousands of music boxes spread across the floor with chandeliers faltering to drizzle glitters of dust on them.