Winter steals something from summer. Warmth, most would say. I continue to struggle with the concept that it's only warmth. The thievery goes deeper I think, taking the soul of you and replacing it with ice, as the temperature plunges. The urge to hibernate is so strong that I fight to stay outside the comfort of blankets and darkness. Winter is a fallen angel, stalking sunshine and maiming the sun's rays.

During the winter season, I feel the need to be anonymous as petal pink lipstick on floral porcelain china. How do I hide myself away from the demands of humanity upon the simplicity of winter's stolen moments? Inside the words of a novel. I wrap myself with them, fortified with adjectives and commas. My brain becomes a sponge that absorbs images and ideas that others write down.

Winter gives me an excuse to have a love affair with books.

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I think I have the start of a story here. I see a woman reading a novel and as she looks up from it, she realizes her life should be as vivid as the words from the novel, she's fallen in love with.