Wednesday, March 17, 2010

Goodbye winter, dear. I anticipate your arrival.

Entirety converses about the gloom of winter and so if I were winter I would fumble upon gloom as well.
If a sum of folk proceeded gossiping, preaching "Scarlett Atmosphere abides in our existence as a gloom generator"... Well then, I wouldn't desire to be Scarlett Atmosphere.
Subjectively, I venerate the characteristics and atheistic's of trees during winter, (no not when the sparkling snow comes to devour their branches, though that is quite beautiful too) but when the branches stretch out long and naked for everyone to see. They remind me of something strong but not bulky, something towering but not prideful. Something natural but not trendy. People beg the bare trees to put something on because they don't see the beauty of it's nakedness. When the trees start to bloom everyone pretends to praise the tree, but only talks about it's bloom. I like the tree. The real tree. The bare tree. The naked tree. The individual branch, the texture of bark.

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