December...
Where have all the memories gone? All those memories of youth, those scents of Christmas looming as gently as a promise hidden beneath softly falling snow...
There is a Solstice to be hold and there is snow, embelishing the city again. But the river flows ad nauseam, without respite, regardless of our passion for a standstill.
Lacking the cast-off wisdom of childish naivety, of playfuly unburdened rule-making force, we are approaching the end of the year - and, perhaps, perhaps of them all. As the horizons of callous rules loom. As the river reminds.
But it's still a game, open to play.
