We who abide this half of the planet’s exigency, know it is the North that sends us the smell of ruin; the redolance of Winter; an exhalation of shades lunged from a movement; at play upon a far-away divide, crowded with blue pines, beset by a whispering snow we imagine as the absence decay inspires.
The spoil of stars we now behold because Fall has pulled down the black shroud of the North, confirms what summer was able to mostly conceal: the dark that surrounds the Worm, surrounds the World.
