the eye of winter passes over and the clouds roll back to the roof

wind moves and sways the leafless trees, old seed pods hang like forgotten christmas boubles.  The light is grey and all colours are downcast by it, the bright reds hues struggle out from their paintwork and are drowned by the oppressive overcast.  Streets are still dry but if i could imagine there was earth and indeed i can feel the earth beneath this skin of tar and bluestone, it is swelling.  Swelling with the smell of rain, waiting hungriliy opening up its maws and glistening fangs, waiting for the sweet rain to gush down and sate it.  As for me i wake late, missing the dawn and the dark sacred morning.  I go for bread, i go for incense i go just to walk out and around, to break the monotony of a workless day, to see the sky in full and not just through a crack to feel the breeze whether cold or cool, i go out just to exist outside this room.  This room where i cannot open a window for fear that it will shatter and shower onto the street below, this room that faces a park with square rocks piled high.  My head is peeling off too fast, it is like time has accelerated triple, quaruple speed and soon i will have no skin on my skull, it will be shiny and white and eyes will stare out lidless at the world and holes and some flesh serve as ear and nose.  My future is beautiful like the rest.  Mountains of ash amongst the deadlands, little eddys in the choking corners.  A paradise amongst the pines.