Winter is a revelation of form. Matter exhales, tightens its shroud; gnaws its bitter logic. Only the bright ghosts of forms stand relevant and alert. Everything drips. This is a time when conversations tend to get to the root of things. Celestial bodies appear closer, harder, and earthly things more like them: decisive, catastrophic. The human spirit thins out like the upper atmosphere, clarifies, adopts a flickering orientation, and waits.