I woke one morning in New Jersey to find the windows tripled glazed, twice by glass, once by frost. One was completely frosted, deceiving me that snow had fallen overnight, re-blanketing the roof adjacent white.  But no it was this fractal fellowship of frost and window pane with the outside temperature dwindling down to below zero, and some leaking leniency of the outer window's frame. Like a coast line set to madden a cartographer, the frost's edges share the practice of dividing with galaxies, so one might be looking at a miniature of starlight.