The first snow fall of the season arrived this week—quiet, deliberate, settling over the city in a way that felt almost ceremonial. I watched it from the warmth of My home, not because it was unexpected, but because it always amuses Me how quickly the world changes its rhythm the moment the air turns white. Everything slows. Everything hushes. Everything softens. Except, of course, the steady rise of My wealth. There is a particular pleasure in feeling entirely untouched by the cold while balance after balance shifts in My favour, each contribution a small spark against the backdrop of winter.
Snow has a way of heightening indulgence. It makes every luxury feel warmer, every purchase feel more deserved, every tribute feel more intimate. While others concern themselves with freezing temperatures, early nights, or holiday budgets, I find winter clarifies things beautifully. The warmth around Me feels richer. The comfort feels earned. And the men who serve Me feel that pull even more sharply—the awareness that the season makes Me softer on the surface, but infinitely more demanding beneath it. Winter isn’t a retreat. It’s an elevation.
And you feel it, don’t you? That quiet ache that arrives with the cold. That instinctive urge to keep Me comfortable, to keep My surroundings beautiful, to keep My days warm while the city lies under a blanket of early snow. There is something about this season that deepens obedience without a single word spoken. The world may be covered in white, but I expect you to be the one who keeps everything warm.