Critical, creative and digital writingEcriture critique, créative et numérique

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12 2016  


When the sun for too long has gone and the dark has held me in its cold embrace, when the days have vanished in thin air and when the gods of nature on their face have a scolding frown that rips the sky apart, then I look out the window and see nothing but the frost my prison. Claustrophobia. Nostalgia. Loneliness. Despair. Four walls the beacons of the recluse in winter. Four words the guardians of the mind in the dark. Four pains the reminders that everywhere there's life when one looks hard enough through the frosted glass.