28 January 2013
The world in white sound muffled by the cleared background of the sky, save the quiet crunching of boot-shaped snow beneath my feet.
The space of my vision deservedly, doggedly envelopes all- We must be a forgotten piece of the Isle of Silence, for all the quietude that keeps me in my sky-high shell.
Gradient, touched with soft colours blend into the fog.
Trees, clouds from bones, do not fail in their reaching as talking heads report that cars have not failed in their screeching, screeching, as the beauty, as in all things tranquils to chaos.
Pale Morning • Opuss № I