"Life is essentially a cheat and its conditions

are those of defeat; the redeeming things are not happiness

and pleasure but the deeper satisfactions that come out of struggle."

- F. Scott Fitzgerald

There is the winter again.

Breathing down my back like a cold harsh memory drawn in the driven snow.

Tempting my mind with dreams of sugarplums but I find weathered figs instead.

Sweet deceit I find under my tongue late at night. I turn bitter with the syrup I've consumed.

I hold my tongue fast, one hand again a team of wild horses.

Yet I hold tight lipped about my past, even through it captures me in my sleep at least there I am alone.

I can tell myself the truth alone, late at night.

Running around outside my mind is unsafe.

Few will ever know the reality of truth...


Whats playing on the record?