I paint the walls in shades of green like leaves of grass. It grows and I talk about my days in paragraphs. How long can they survive in cold winter nights? To be frozen over is a risk I couldn't bare to take alone. How long can i stay awake to tear pages into pieces? They, like little leaves of grass, are frozen over. I look to the wall and see past pictures taped to what once was blue. Books marked by middle pages marked by red roses and letters never folded evenly into envelopes. The beginning is a reflection of the end, and one can not exist without the other. So I ask myself, what is the purpose of the lock without the knowing of its key?