Cold ramblings
I like to watch snow fall on the other side of the window
with a hot cup of tea in hand. In practice I hate the cold
but in theory I adore it. Cold is an agent of preservation.
The green and breathing gifts of life do not bloom in the
cold caress of winters kiss but life does drift from it.
Crystalline perfections, built of a million frozen fractals,
blanket and muffle the glaring cacophony of life at its most
chaotic. Life must be messy to exist but it craves the illusion
of sterility on occasion. In the wee hours of the morning you
can here perfection shattered by a thousand different footfalls.
Ozymandias winks at passing children as he builds a snowman
down the lane. No knight of the round table ever observed so
formal a ritual in dawning his armor as does a morning commuter
pulling on a parka. There is a fine crisp line between comfort
and a frosting patch of skin left unguarded at the flanks. One
would be hard pressed to tell the difference between a caterpillars
cocoon and puffy jacketed wobblers at fifty paces. One transforms
in body even as the other dreams of infernos and permafrost in
rapid succession. Do opaque windows being rubbed in swirling
ovals open up any less impressive portals then Aladdin's dented
tea pot? My genie rises in drifts of Jasmine and Earl Grey.
The thermostat is safely dialed past the top half of the bell
curve and the latest book of ages calls my name. I am comforted
that there are people about who choose the reality and balance
my lovely theory.
with a hot cup of tea in hand. In practice I hate the cold
but in theory I adore it. Cold is an agent of preservation.
The green and breathing gifts of life do not bloom in the
cold caress of winters kiss but life does drift from it.
Crystalline perfections, built of a million frozen fractals,
blanket and muffle the glaring cacophony of life at its most
chaotic. Life must be messy to exist but it craves the illusion
of sterility on occasion. In the wee hours of the morning you
can here perfection shattered by a thousand different footfalls.
Ozymandias winks at passing children as he builds a snowman
down the lane. No knight of the round table ever observed so
formal a ritual in dawning his armor as does a morning commuter
pulling on a parka. There is a fine crisp line between comfort
and a frosting patch of skin left unguarded at the flanks. One
would be hard pressed to tell the difference between a caterpillars
cocoon and puffy jacketed wobblers at fifty paces. One transforms
in body even as the other dreams of infernos and permafrost in
rapid succession. Do opaque windows being rubbed in swirling
ovals open up any less impressive portals then Aladdin's dented
tea pot? My genie rises in drifts of Jasmine and Earl Grey.
The thermostat is safely dialed past the top half of the bell
curve and the latest book of ages calls my name. I am comforted
that there are people about who choose the reality and balance
my lovely theory.