What happened to the sun?

It took me by surprise, winter’s descent. Not too long ago, the light from the sky was orange warm, and you felt it on your skin. Now it’s fingers of ice fondling your cheeks, and what I imagine to be the crackling laughter like crystal wind chimes congregating, of the wind’s passage through the scatter-hued leaves. The sun is a faded smear in the sky, in a world of gray tones, even with the big blue sky spanning the distance between horizons: a faded photograph, nay—a fadograph, as Joyce aptly put it. Entropy can have it’s dance, a few month’s slow waltz of chill at the winter ball. It can have its many-monthed day. I’ll persevere. If only I had a fireplace… but I have the best thing, a warm and receiving body, burning like embers of coal in the hearth of home’s bed.

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