Summer softens lines that winter cruelly shows.

A sensual life is a ghostly existence where you live on the surface and your soul passes through everything, touching nothing.

Sunday evenings are heavier than clouds with rain, darker too and often interminable.

That icy glass reduces your beauty - dims your fire - let me be your mirror...

Freshly cut Christmas trees smelling of stars and snow and pine resin - inhale deeply and fill your soul with wintry night.

I'm a modern mountebank - I believe in Physiognomy - after all, we are in control of our face - it's the map of where we've been.

December's wintery breath is already clouding the pond, frosting the pane, obscuring summer's memory.