After a day spent doing nothing, a run through the shivering dark. Under halogen light, the last of the leaves appear like pointillistic dots on the sculptural tree branches. Chapped lips begin to hurt. Later, lines of ichor will appear in front of the mirror as aftershave is daubed over them. Heart rarely believes in its dumb luck anymore. Why should it anyway? The self is to be blamed for the heart is nothing more than an animal, even if it is sometimes a strange species to others, and to itself. It should live in paintings, and not in these real landscapes with changing weathers. Must teach the self to give it away, again piece by piece. It is better to live among a ruin of a ribcage than with it, hooting and whistling and bubbling, another Chernobyl waiting to happen.

Perhaps it is the winter darkness that falls so early at these meridians that makes me turn to music in lento and largo. And Henryk Gorecki's "Symphony No. 3" is fast becoming music I have been listening to over and over again these past few weeks. This is the first movement, "Lento - Sostenuto Tranquillo Ma Cantabile" - all 30 minutes of it. So take some time, and give it a listen.

[1] Walking towards a dinner in the fortress of solitude, he realizes that unlike the trees preparing to disrobe for a winter's kiss and then a summer's worth of dappled dreams, he hadn't felt life move in his husk for years.

[2] A dancer to a Police song - "Everything is magic" - finds him hiding his tears bending over the lamb on his plate, and in all innocence of the very young, moves closer to where he sits, and twirls and twirls. Everything is magic in the mirror of her large round eyes, clear of suffering that now veins his spying ones.