The scraggley mountains in the distance look like soft sleeping boddies made round and soft covered and swaddled in an icy blanket of aproaching fog.
An emerald and ruby star hangs in the distance reminicent of some **** covered nativity scene with mules kicking and a woman screaming and piles of hay rotting into the shape of beds and a fool man welcoming an immaculate carpenter and a woman smug in deciet as she pushes out into a pile of muddy grain and rat ****.
A sheet of rain falls sidesways in the distance storm front drawing a visible line in the sky the rain sounds like a waterfall eating away at the concrete slowly over time with icy crystal gums as soft and deadly as a sleeping bear or a politicians words.
These things form the viege memories of a season. Along with wood stoves, the sticky smell of pitch, hearty soup, old musty books, warm muddy boots, and hot strong drinks. Warming pioson to the core. Winter sickness in the town where rain makes a grey christmas. Every. *******. Year.