. .prosodic arson. . . . . . .(header pic tribute to Zilon).

It’s cold. The moisture in the outside air haunts me like a soggy bowl of all-bran as it pours through my open window. It has been days since I have last written anything and I can feel the chokehold of deadline driven time tighten its grip about my neck. I catch a reflection of myself in a nearby glass of water. The skewed icy glare returned pierces my soul in an unsettling way. Slouched forward, I see that refracted light has impregnated my reflection with a frigid aura that only chills me further. Cold melts into warm as my body grows accustomed to the new wintery atmosphere my room has assimilated.
I prepare for bed.
This dimly lit box, my room, is a graveyard to all my desires. Here I sleep with the damned as they enshroud me in warmth.