Where will chasms appear when time decides fate should allow egress of my vanity. With, sulking ignorance by the collar, into the void I will flail about as a leaf unstemmed. In the blizzards and chill and frost and cold and every flake I suppose. A pale iceberg of a soul cracking open, falling into itself. This is the fall breeze. The wind as stirs about the blooded moon. A distant warning so somber that it pulls water from the cliffs.
The winter. The winter of quiet. The winter of Ice. The winter of hunger. The winter of hopelessness.
-M