You're surrounded by beauty.
Wild streams tumbling over rocks, pulling their white foam with them. Slant of the sun, blackened by a crow. The sway of a tree branch. The smell of a chocolate croissant and the soft, dry feel of pink powder smeared your face.
And you should be content but then you see the mountains. And even though you're already on a mountain, it's not the same because the ones you see are bigger, topped with fresh snow. It's just like snow should be, not like the melting ice by the side of the road. Real snow for real mountains.
You want to be there, on that peak. You want it so much it hurts. Just a little, in the bottom left corner of your abdomen. You want to be on top of that mountain, standing in snow, with the rest of the world below you.
You grow yourself a pair of wings. Whatever colour you like. And then you walk off in the opposite direction, away from it all.