heavy is the head...

Snow falls outside and it seems as though it will never stop, and on this side of the glass, in my world, there remains only black.

Black - as in the absence of color... as in the absence of all light and warmth.

I grow so bored. Bored of life and it's complexity. How I long to escape outside and find a quiet corner, perhaps underneath a tree or some cardboard, so I may sit alone and listen to the breeze and the hushed whispering of the incessant snow. I wish to listen, merely listen, and try to decipher their words. There must be a meaning to those words and in this meaning perhaps a solution… a cure to this illness which I cannot seem to lose.

I wish I could escape far away perhaps up into the mountains, desolation peak, and find a spot where I may simply sit and stare far off into space enjoying the sublime silence. And yes I would wear a crown of gold and a robe of crushed velvet.