Winter has always provided such a sense of alertness for me by making keen my senses and pricking my physical frame with cold needles of ambiance. Congruently though, there is also a sense of lurid night that holds dreams of winter sleep in the bosom of the earth. Like a kiln the dreams of winters slumberous tomb cook and cure in the heart of the soft visions. I walk through dreams in nights such as these. Today I walk in the transit between these two worlds of day and dreams light and the break of winter night's frigid somberness. I will walk in the wake of the crisp parcel of frozen dew at the apex of a lunar crescendo. This day is my night. The will-o'-the wisp knows me.