You forget the quiet in things. The sweet silence of morning as the coffee brews and you stand watching out the window as the squirrels scamper and flit across the frozen ground, all the little feathered bits of nature give chase inside the gray and waiting air. Up in the sky, a soaring formation of dark shadowy geese, crying out their direction, making clear their shriek of intention. High above, the clouds are rippled like an oil painting, soft washed hues of bluegrays and whites, pregnant with a snowfall which promises to quiet this little town in blankets of glittering cold. You forget the magic in being alone, the solace of trusting yourself, being with what you know, being aroused and empowered by the beating of your own wild heart. I think of the women who have spent so much of their time in rooms by themselves. Each a candle dancing, melting, burning. Little silent lights all over the world in their quietude. The arch of their stories bending toward sensuality and disruption. The flick of their elegant fingers across the laptop keys as they give life to the lifeless, breathe holiness into the mouths of the wretched, the forgotten, the ugly, the shamed, the broken. You forget what it has taken for you to have come this far. You forget how much of your soul you have dared to touch, to caress, to bare. But on this intimate morning, of no particular significance to anyone else in the world, with the words alight in your veins and your mind ablaze with decadent dreams, the parts of you which had forgotten, now suddenly remember. You remember all of it, the gruesome and the glorious. And your spirit becomes a magnificent mirrored pool, reflecting the fathomless depths of the reverence you deserve. And for a few moments, this mad life feels good all wrapped around your sacred bones. And just as a little crack in your mind begins to grow, just as your fear threatens to impose, you look out across the distant sky, as it begins to snow.