My thoughts return to burning frozen logs in the darkness by myself. It brings me a lot of pleasure to burn frozen wood, to see the cold water bubble out of the tightly dead fibers. Purity in destruction. Rebirth in combustion.

It reminds me of something I'd like everyone to know: I've seen the most haunted looking tree give golden leaves in fall. I like to think that even though it lead a dead, scared life, time has spun its rare sugars into ichor all the same.

That is why we must bleed. It defines us, makes us gnarled and twisted and ugly. But when the wheel rolls all the way, it pulls out the golden flax that we were spinning all along.

The murderers who loved the most, the thieves who stole in furious tears unbeknownst to themselves, they too bear golden leaves. I hope you see that too.

World's a big place. Not enough words to build a paper mâché of it. Live it for yourself. Most of all, love.

Goodnight.