i am contemplating stillness. a desolate and flat land breathing wind
blown silence. my young will be off on adventure, and i will return to
the land of my own youth where the scape and scope is empty, like the
canvas of a tormented painter who wants to impress his agony on
canvas, but can't force himself to make the first stroke. the traces of my footsteps are long gone, probably blown away by the
ever blowing wind. the sky is brighter there, bleached like my life
before i moved to the great green. every time i return, it feels less
like what i remember from childhood. the affection i feel for the land
crumbles in my hands, like sand. there is little for me there now, and
i always feel like a man out of place. winter is here, but the weather is warm. still, everything feels
frozen. despite the quiet, i feel very little peace. i have to move now. i think i remember i was going somewhere. other
than the constant push from within, i'm in no hurry. i've seen all i
can from this point, though. it is time to move on. it's going to be a hard winter. i will make it through. mine is a
nuclear winter. always has been. ghost
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