Often curving through the misery of the world we see a hope in smoke billowing out of a rest house and we decide to stop, knowing not who will welcome the presence of an entity from the cold snowy blizzard and that who would be brave enough to console you and subjugate your sorrows with the flick of a matchstick that burns brighter than a thousand suns of joy to evacuate the cold blizzard from your slowly colding heart, and yet the heart gets warmed as your future seems full of promise once more and life has seen you again through the foggy sunset, just in time.
(One or two errors, yes, deliberate though
Grammar only restricts creativity's flow.)
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