Good evening you wonderful creations of life and love, may the twilight hold you close as the winter nights become ever so cold. Midnight dreams of warming fires, succulent dreams of roasting marshmallows with your loved one, decadent kisses with the taste of candy cane on her/his lips. Winter is but a encased monster that happens to be one of the most beautiful you have ever seen. A cursed rose, A child of murder and sacrilegious desire, A welcomed guest of unwanted desires that are not evident. Truly a consumption of both love and cold heart break.

Into the darkness the times have begun to turn, the life and hope of photonic days, a set of individual atomic means brightens the ever-more frozen forest. A torn hour of final hour of cold sight into the twilight of life and death, frozen mysteries and deadly consumptions are but a time of the cold. Bring forth your warmth in cotton and polyester, layers of material to fight of the ridged bones of the outreaching hand of jack frost. Souls covered by the skin are not saved by layers of warmth, but of the mind steady and strong as the mind becomes devout to live.

Dark roads of back water roads, steam of the bog crawling across the road, a twisting mass of the cold nights. A fog of stench and reveling the twisted biological consumption to produce the deathly heat of bog. A homestead of the learned and the graves of the curious. A trade of life on the case of the wanted. One with time and years of the mind, Know the bog is but a mangled consciousness of both apathetical wants, yet a heart of warmth to save others. Step cautiously little one, know the sights and behave as the ones who lived, one eye always watching to learn and another to watch the hunger of the world so it does not consume you. Enlarged minds feed stomachs and lustful curiosity feeds the bog, fear not, as fear is the bounty of death, the bog is both life and death, it is unconscious reality, a true essence of harbor.

To the darkness comes the shivering babes of the wild. Mothers who know that the babes are not used to such cold temper. The womb is a home of comfort and the birth a loss of the worlds first comfort. To the frozen world the youth is born, a world uncaring for life. A mothers love and her tender love will bring the babes to the spring, a chance of life but yet all so curious that the ones who bask in the snow and beg for bogs existence, seem to harbor a truer sense of love and sacrifice.

For is it time for humanity to have a chance to face houseless winter and live by the rules of the bog, are we lesser then the rodent and the bear, are we a reluctant learner of hopes and dreams. For they are the once things that lead us to the home of shaped trees and stacked stone. Now the dreams have died and the hopes have become expectations. Are we now the ones to remember the bog for what it is, a lover, a killer, a provider, a thief, the truth.

Much love

Your Friendly Ginger From The Woods.