One day Throwing Snow woke up imprisioned in a studio somewhere in the south west of England. The air smelt funny, not at all like the fresh air of the north, but it was somehow addictive and sort of green. He tried the door but it was locked from the outside. Thankfully a magic mug meant he had an inexhaustable supply of coffee and people threw sausage and egg sandwiches through the bars on his windows. He resigned himself to the only thing that could keep him sane...writing a tune someone, somewhere may like.
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