Do not think that I have forgotten those words which used to flow within me, bleeding from my pen across the paper. Sometimes I wonder where they have gone and why they have not made an appearance in so long, but upon thought, I realise that it is because I have not sat down to access them. They sit there still, within my veins, pushed along with every beat of my heart, waiting to be plucked out from my veins and scattered over the pages.
Do not think that my heart is a frozen wasteland, untouched by this new world where emotion is not so unwisely invested as it was before. In truth, the emotions are still there, biding their time until a situation arises and they are needed. There will be one in time, there is no doubt, but for now, the winter of my heart reigns supreme, staunching the flow of poetry and ornamental prose which used to glide so freely from me; like the skeletal trees framing the white sky, they are not dead, but full of life, simply awaiting the best time to burst again full into bloom.