I warn you, this is complete and utter nonsense. I killed grammar and left her for the cats.
And the silent rushing wind swept with a vigor of withered leaves
stirs up freshly a new recollection,
In the night, but not pitch dark. The gentle darkness, rather, with a kind of
lifting excitement that makes the heart beat a moment faster for reasons
the harried mind can't understand; but eagerly like Christmas, grasping, disappearing, there are no fingers to catch these images, these non-existences, and put them into place. But the heart so frankly yearning, wishing to live out these cold and snapping roses, the stinging cheeks & smiles, a bright street-lamp laughter daubed in burgundies and deep golds; carriage clatter, mindless, swerving; it's hard to capture quite the moment (why can't it solidify!)—to run fingers over, eyes drinking in, the sprinkling of sounds becoming sharp and clear like they never really were. Train-freight calling in the distance. Santa Claus rolls over into intermediary spring; the sleepy icicles awakening and my dreams put to rest beside magical fireplaces and hot gingerbread (things always taste better in the head). Because reality never quite matches up with our expectations (hung upside down like drying lavender), or mine at least, too cynical to taste the sweetness of snow, and sometimes there's no help wondering if we're better left in this perfect realm of disillusions, or should we shatter and let reality bleed in? The former is the pleasanter, but practicality accords with the latter; and old people always say they've lived so long and drowned so far and I guess maybe second tries are better than you think they are.
But I'm still waiting for Christmas.
yeah, that's basically what I was thinking-feeling the other night.