Oh those icy spring mornings, looking out at glorious sun, rickety shack.

But still not greater than the night before, a pale, pink, winter twilight that made the world seem slanted and frozen and the very words from your lips only seem to eke out amidst the overwhelming melancholy and desolation of the blended brown and white brilliance of trees reaching up to the heavens, naked for want of foliage, and so they shiver and creak with the unimaginable ecstasy of the empty chill of the air whenever a breeze blows in from the void; When their shadows cast sideways against The Mountain by the last feeble attempt of the sun's light make you feel drunk and thus you can only stumble through the half frozen mud and snow toward a warm beacon light and the nostalgic smell of smoke creeping with sooty tendrils from the silver tower of it's chimney: Home. To sleep, and face the day ahead.