Sip the spiral pain of decadence for another hour, the winter shall never cease.

I remember driving downtown in the dead quiet of the night, freshly rested from the frantic hell of driving for twelve hours with no stops at the top speed the behemoth could muster and a day late as it was. We were drunk on the new, in a stupor in awe of what we had accomplished, and ready for the great unknown that lie ahead.

Now as I sit in spite of the creeping fatigue as the night drives on in, The New is now The Known and life has gone beyond the beginnings. Birth is coming to it's end for another turn and I am satisfied with both what lay behind me and ahead.

Definitions are never set in stone but for today I am happy with the ones that I have found for myself.

A winter night finds gravity in the ashes of it's own fluidity; a round ball of light, turning and existing only in itself, of itself. No more forward. No more backward. A trace to be left in the moment it is conceived, outside of tomorrow.

Home for today.

Let he among us without sin be the first to condemn la vie boheme!

Destroy Once Done