It's snowing, so there's snow.
What is it with me and winter this year.
Strange.
But serene.
I almost don't want spring to come with its incessant need, once again.
Demanding and clawing at the skin and bones of every living thing.
Just to claim its prizes.
And usually it's my favorite.
But now.
It's nice to dwell under the cover of ice.
Kind of secret.
Spring drags everything out of the frozen ground, out in the open.
Somehow exposed in its need to make new life.
Kind of pornographic, you know?
Winter is hidden and it's silent and demure and unmoved.
Like a Sunday morning under covers.
Or words that only you can hear and eyes meant for none other.
It's like, sinking and submitting.
The tranquil looks of giving in.
It's as dirty as it's pure.
The ice just ties you up, in its dungeon, and then the fire makes you free.
As carnal as it's holy.
Winter - the true soul home of Erotica.
Apparently this is what I now like.
Again, and always, I have love for all of you.
Yours truly.
M.
