In the Wintertime the outdoors becomes a vast array of desolate fields and twisted, leafless trees. The wind has a bone-cutting frigidness to it.. and when the night comes, if there isn‘t silence, there are the alien sounds of what must be farmer’s machinery, or the horns of trains like murderous cries for attention. Above the sky is scattered with aircraft, cloudy or starry, but the whole is mostly empty and black. I look upon the season with the same absolute apathy it has for me, and live in a losing defiance with every step taken outside.

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