I sometimes worry that—if I get too close, too physically close to a person—the images which I cannot remove from my head will burst forth. They and I will be exposed; naked; and visible to everyone.
That is what I fear most: the images even I cannot face. The images that haunt me in the endless witching hour that is Winter. Images which will not leave me, but which grow more vivid with each passing year.
The years are getting darker; the winters are getting longer. Like Filris, staring at a small soapstone statuette cradled (or was it clutched?) in her bony hands: so too will I come to realize that what I've been seeing for all these years is real, and that I am soon to be a part of reality no longer.
That will be the longest winter.
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