is what it seems from there to here. A year to the day, or near to that. I hear no snowhush through the trees. Snow is what loneliness is for. Snow is everything I ask of it. It rarely disappoints. A year. A dash between one calendar and a new one, a new set of thoughts of presents deposited in the mail for disposal or dispersal to other countries and acquaintances.
From what I hear you are away from it, considering the beach a respite, a white night of everything in the north. I understand. I am a heartbeat at least on an analog line from listening to it. But I think of it. Each night when I contemplate this new surrounding, particular quiet. I don't blame this space for the white lack. But I wonder: what would this place be like if it was blanketed. Quieter, maybe, slushy, petrifying, electric.
Are you the same as you were last year? Am I? Another heart, another life, another tower. Another tour of duty. It feels like much the same. Except I am no longer there, or here really. Well, I am here, but this is not the same as that. It is not a hat I can put on at night to protect me from the wind. It is not a winding road up to the highest peak for ten hours or more. It is emptiness, like other emptinesses, a grid like other grids. Little color. Little grain. Almost nothing.
