I believe in Santa Claus, says her hat. But she doesn't, and will loudly tell you so. She likes the braids. Glittering ice thickly encrusts the cracking trees around her, and water foul fluff themselves at her Soreled feet. But she can't see beyond her snowy braids. The temperature has dropped. All change is cold.
In the face of Frosticus, nothing left but the chilling lie-down attack. How many HP? Wait! Frosticus has called his Duckasaur minions. How many HP? Ice hands. Ice feet. No energy. No Ex. Bill bashers! Activate anti-thermal boots, and let drop the cryo-crystalized shard, and cryo-cry: the temperature has dropped. All change is cold.
And so began our Christmas wanderings... navigating heaps...
The Stollen stalks us...
Through strange, yet hopeful, and even sometimes joyous echos...
... of memories, and meanings, beyond within ourselves, accumulating ...
In a mystery we pray will be revealed, and the beauty of will persist.
(Click any pic for more shadows...)
No comments:
Post a Comment