In winter, you want to die. You want to get married. You want to close your eyes, close your books, close your mind to change. You want to start an afterlife, a new past, a nostalgia trip that never ends. You want to write your first song, eat your last meal, drink your last drink, blow out the candle.
Elliot Smith - Roman Candle -1994
There are no miracles on par with the rebirth of life after winter, no dream so great as that of the sun shining down on us again, like we are children who have apologized. Forgive us, we knew not the size of the forces we were arrayed against. In the cold roiled mud, kneeling, looking up, looking for any golden saviour.
Perhaps there are no miracles at all. There is no hope of resurrection. There is nothing to life but mechanical endurance, nothing to keep the cold from your bones but your flesh and skin and thin wool. Only the heart keeps the blood flowing. Only your courage lets you shut the door behind you. Only the love of ones more cold and damned than you.
Blackmore's Night - Village Lanterne - 2006
Till the burning eye of the sun returns, drink with me.
