For some reason I feel like going to hide for a season in a cabin in the woods so far away from all the other humans. Locked away from the cement walls and torn edges of each day. I feel like staring out a window with a cup of hot chocolate spiked with rum, and I want to see the snows falling and in seeing I don't want to see at all. I want the snow to be a blinding sheet that seems never to end.

I want to write and to do that I should be locked away...

It seems so difficult to decide what to do with this life we are given, or if anything we do is worth while. If we are not wasting away in this existence just going on from day to day, moment to moment, no reflections of the next and nothing of the last.

Yet with wishes in a bag and a pile of scars the world will move on and gain control for another moment before slipping on the great black ice it features. Brave new world and a palace of obsidian glass from which the world is looking in. I feel like I am in a show.