Dear Wigleaf, I hear there is a bunker where we can take shelter. But maybe I am too tired to go on. When will summer turn to autumn, and autumn to winter? I am ready for hibernation. You may not know this, but there is a glacier inside my lungs. I exhale ice. If there are so many words for snow, why is it so impermanent? Can we remain lost forever? Is that what crawls through my veins and feels like fear? There are so many beginnings I can no longer keep track, and infinite questions for all of them. I await your answers, Ryan - - -
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