The memory of rain.

Do you feel how dreadful the silence is? Broken only by the occasional raindrops from the memory of rain. I sit waiting for uncertainty to confirm it's ambivalence in all surety. The thunderstorm has died into a cold, wet night. I am tempted to let it slip into day. And day into night. And night, day. But the hours won't come.

There is no warmth in this old, familiar place. I am as cold as when I first left grace.

Even December is disintegrating before my eyes. I am no longer able to uphold it's magic.