Every January the same tumble: colors drain, a fog settles between my senses and the objects they try to discern. And I can't help but contemplate that I was born in January when this collapse occurs. I don't feel like a spirit eager to lap up the stuff of things incarnate. All the love (carnal, of course), the greed, the hate, the passion even seem like such an overwhelming effort. Such a distraction from the sweet inner silence.