A thousand eyes, held in the palms of a thousand hands, still echoes like winter winds through hollowed trees and yet its meaning is still lost to me.
And yet, the world still turns.
The dust, waiting to be distributed, rests on paths leading nowhere. And my heart, having lost its fire and been rekindled, can feel the spiders of forgotten times closing in.
I am contemplating my assault on the decanter because sometimes it is so hard not smoking.
The darkness whistles in greeting.