All of this exists in a place where time stands as still as the moment when it all began. I do not know what is going to grow from this moment. I do not think this is any season for growing.
The world is retreating inside itself as winter’s fingers creep out from the shadows to grasp everything in their icy grip. The days shrink inside themselves, huddling together against the cold, lost in the mists and fog they stumble around into each other, merging into one long slow memory of dark nameless days stretching out from autumn into spring.
The mornings are dark now and we have trouble escaping our dreams to stumble out into the cold of day. It is not a day though, not until the night has been shrugged off and dawn’ hesitant beginnings are creeping slowly across the skies.
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