Winter fell, as to remind us of all of its shadows cast forward and all the preparations properly envisioned and intended but we only partly got around to, too late now, what fools we are, but we don’t beat ourselves up over it.
This winter solstice was presented to us as France’s coldest in about fifteen years, but in no way did it compare to the previous, when both plumbing and heating broke down in an epic spin towards an eviction we only barely escaped from. In sharp contrast snugness rules our current days that thus fly out from under us with no appreciable difference from the days before.
To be surrounded by this tenderly touchable wilderness, of which I prefer to imagine it closely matches our spirits and desires, obviously does not count as but nevertheless feels like an accomplishment in itself, bravely fought in these uncertain times of travel restrictions, turning pearls before swine into an antithesis of disappearing: here we are.
We are here, with a dilate discern of distinct belonging, no matter what, blissfully unharmed by any curtailed freedom.
