It’s all pre fabricated thoughts
And moments we can’t escape
It’s like the things we can’t change
And in a moments grace
Some will burn
and some will fade
It seems we come in a medicated state
And with prescriptions we choose to take
Like her love for the place she comes from
It’s a life’s mistake
And a moment of fate.
its in the milk.
In the milk.
Oh,
oh. the milk
There is a hint of purity and innocence in a landscape covered in snow.
For as far as the eye can see, mine capture a blanket of white with a broken black haze on the horizon. Scattered sparsely thru out the open plains and off in the distance there are a few smudges resembling that of a farm house.
A little bit closer,
Some farm equipment seemingly left for dead at the first sign of winter.
And the foreground,
A tree.
It is almost the perfect tree.
It stands tall and proud and straight as an arrow.
Its branches,
They appear to be symmetrical.
It seems unlikely but I like to think its possible.
There is no whiz of passing cars.
Not a whistle from a bird.
The perfectly tuned hum of industry and big city is non existent.
there is no splash of a body of water or the howl of wind.
The only sound is the constant ringing in my ears and it might drive me insane.
The lack of sound and the calming energy makes me anxious but I know I could soon grow to love it (maybe not forever).
Is this desolation or inspiration?
Is this isolation or freedom?
If we live in a “free world” then this might be paradise.
The only warmth to my hands as I snap a few photos is that of a cigarette nearing its end.
I retreat inside to be informed by the talking box (as imperfect as it is) that it is -31 degrees Celsius and frostbite can happen in less then minutes to skin exposed to the crisp cold morning air.
…I guess this is a grim prairie winter in central Canada…
Two.shoes 