Sparse and stark is life alone, doubly so in winter.
And apartments take on haunting, lonely, loathsome coldness when the one colour outside is white
and the one sound heard is car tires crunching through the white snowy roads
and the one smell smelled is the gas from a burnt out pilot light.
And the thoughts inevitably thought are those of past and failure.
The two collide,
often violently,
and the wreckage spills
to every corner of the mind.
Little licks of shameful flame
torch every last ambition that had been laying
dormant.
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