I think the dead are singing or so I gather from their mouths. I do not like the boat I'm in- it has no oars and the big black water has no fish or prawns so am I wrong? The dead look like angels painted touching and leaning and grouped toward some understood truth that Anonymous knew. I don't like the car I'm in it has no horn and the brakes don't work so what's the use of youth? The dead move like curtains lifted by the wind. The windows are opened and let the sun and the snow right in. The dead seem to have no feet no need for shoes they drift. I shuffle along in my orthopedic shoes poor circulation forcing me to lean on polls in the street. I think I will join them soon they are so neat. - Shining is asleep now under the snow and the plow in the barn cuts the wind in two. The tractor is graced with a glaze of ice and doesn't move from its prominent place. The sun is minted. It does its work in the subterranean hollows of the hardened ground deftly. Stirring deep is summoned growth an off camera sex scene. And underground in the nether hole It’s pooling. She's moistening below. It's a joy to know that out of sight she's blooming like a nubile girl bound to be seduced by a vital force and show her charms in sons and daughters of light and warmth. It can’t happen soon enough.