one month into winter: every forest have a tree with a name carved into it. Ones that make you stop and rethink history, and calling out strange names and get no response. You make no connection, it can not feed you but you are hungry.
One month into winter, every year the same: You get jaded like you where on percripted medicine. You jade and the distance sneak in between insticnt and time, and in this cold, in this first month of winter, every year, you bump into the same, the selfperpatuating mass-organ: litlle jaded canisters.

xcuse me: its christmastime and I get annoied very easily. A jaded little canister.