Firebirds hiding just under the horizon, winter’s far edge moving closer at a ponderous pace that just makes it a bit scarier. I like the winter, I don’t want it to leave me here.

I write with cold, shivery fingers. They will grow warmer and surer. It is a small reward for the nastiness that waits to greet me. Summer hides its horrors better, in sticky muck that seems your own doing.

I hear the dryness call from under the ground, aware of its own inevitability. It will dress itself up in colours that herald its arrival with a cheeriness that belies the sinister deeds to come.

But maybe I’m just bitter. Maybe Persephone’s just not my kind of person. I try to think it’s nothing personal.