A vision came two nights ago whence I was asleep at a cove here beside the Atlantic Ocean. White snow and drifts buried all of mans mistakes, the whirls and howling of subarctic winds stirred a sense of anxiety while I stared listlessly at an agrarian village beneath the first coming winter. All the folks has a benighted look in their eyes, and they seemed to hide a primal fear, and when they stared back at me, it was as if out of accusal or expectance of me to provide them with advice. They knew I had spoken of Ragnarok, the three years winter, and they wished I could devise the narrative in simple mythic form to them, so that they could prepare for what was coming. They were terrified, and saddened, it even made me melancholic in a way that pierced my heart together with the biting cold. The sky was purest white, so the snow could only be seen against darker backgrounds but eventually everything else was white as well, including the people. Houses were becoming buried, the Gods seemed to will it, by some incausal action divine before the fallow earth had even been walked by us. Remembering that we must die, and the harvest comes to the soul as well as the land.
This is all I could recall, and the picture which I found to represent most accurately the image of what I saw in the astral, the onset of a fimbulwinter, which I may incluse in some music in the future.