The shortest day. The longest night. The darkness has been holding the tongue fast during this frozen over hold-out. I’m just holding on. You’re just hanging on. We’re just scattering, tattering, unraveling.

A spark is as good as the sun in the winterlands. And a shot is as good as a hope in the hinterlands. And a trap is worth building to catch the things you know you need to survive.

I’m laying traps and hanging snares and tying ropes that’ll eventually trip something up. Some unfortunate life beating with blood and heat. I’ll split some out onto my hands to take the numbness away.

Is this how we were meant to live?

Oh, but meant is a complicated term. Let’s take a gander through the lexicon of language shall we. Only there do we find the complex revelries into those deeper meanings behing misunderstandings we homo sapiens seem to find so all-important.

At any rate, it’s a little bit warmer out, and what with the solstice coming — there’s no question that another dark shadow has, at least in theory, passed.

On Saturday, I light a candle for my soul. And if it amounts to anything at all, I’ll light one for you, as well.


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