The snow never ends.  I have this overwhelming urge to curl up in a ball listening to Sergi Prokofiev while reading a copy of Pravda.  Some days are like just like that.   I sit in a chair imagining myself as some 70 year old moth eaten lost soul with a pipe hanging from blistered lips,  lost in an tangled grey beard.  I sit unmoving, alone in a cold dark room. Occasionally I’ll glance up from my old paper to rant at a raven that dares to break the low light of the winter sun diffused by dirty glass and failing vision.  My yellowed eyes following its blurred liquid silhouette as it passes a frozen artic blue window.  Complex fractals go unseen in every corner. A wasted Mandebrot set spun before dead eyes. In this old mad fantasy clouds rise in the cold air with every deep cough.  A cold fire fed by broken chairs writhes in its final pink death throws imprisoned in a dusty marble frame.  My chair creaks as I reach to a dark walnut table to tap the last ashes from my cold pipe into a dirty glass ashtray.

The reality of course is that it’s just another long winter.  Gryphon has pink eye, and I’ve got work to do. At some point in the day I have to sneak out to vote. Still,  the late February shadows are growing shorter. The sun is slowly climbing higher in the sky with each passing day.  Spring is not too far off, soon to be followed by another gaudy summer.  I try very hard to appreciate that, and to forget that the summer to come only visits for a short time before once again being covered by frost.

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