"shelter as we go"

We wait through the hours of cold

Winter shall howl at the walls

Tearing down doors of time

Shelter as we go

And promise me this

You'll wait for me only

Scared of the lonely arms

Surface, far below these burns

And maybe, just maybe 

I'll come home

Who am I, darling to you?

Who am I?

Going to tell you stories of mine

Who am I?

I come alone here

- Written by Ben Howard

It's been a funny week.

Every time someone questions me about my day, I always tell them that there was nothing much. In the process of nonexistent flux and constant accumulation, I have been thinking of nothing, but everything. I've read somewhere in a book that nothing has an unlikely quality. It is heavy. In a vastness of nothingness, of nullification - there is always everything.

Melancholia is a seasonal repercussion. 

I will be tearing down doors of time soon, I promise. I will be trying my best. I have a terrible habit of abbreviating things; 

but in short this is my season to have everything. 

Yet nothing at all.