Some time ago someone went walking in a perfect snow covered world. The lateness of the hour allowed the dark skies to further illuminate the falling specks of white. Not a footprint was found as the someone sauntered slowly between buildings and architectural structures. Nearby a street efforted to remain silent as nary a car or truck passed. There were no snowball fights, no wild romps through the cold night, no persons dashing between buildings and parking lots. The only motion came from the skies scattering down snow and the hushed walking of the someone. Stillness and quiet abounded. Not a mark was made over the path the someone covered, not one. A perfect blanket of white came together over everything, as if the gods were stitching a pattern from above, flake by flake.

The someone wondered what secrets lie hidden underneath the blanket, but that was merely a passing thought. The idea that stayed with the someone, it wouldn't release him from its grip. It had to due with how unblemished the landscape appeared. A part of the grass had been torn up with the concrete during a recent city repair job on a local building, it made for a real eyesore to perspective candidates and remained a source of debate in many political circles. Under the perfect sheet of snow, all the blemishes went away, all the debates stopped. The eyesore became part of the stillness.