Winter Tree

winter treeI didn’t enjoy Christmas. I rarely do. This year had the added ‘bonus’ of me reaching the age my dad died at. I also realised it isn’t Christmas per se that isn’t liked. True, much of it isn’t, like the panic and stress about who goes where and what happens when they’re there, but really it’s that whole time of year weather thing previously mentioned (links below). The meal and all the drinking, any going out and socialising (assuming I can get past the leaving the house bit), I love and can’t ever recall a time of sitting morosely through any of that.

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SCREEN

Welcome to a world of cruel dystopian colour; a place where the wills of people are crushed to smithereens while they writhe, screaming and yelling, for more-more-more, please; a realm of defecating into giant reverberating chambers that regurgitate it all as an intellectual sustenance gleefully chowed down on with great gusto and—mmm . . . yummy—appetite.

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The Tree of Love

I thought (assumed) it would be straightforward enough to find a picture of a tree to match the image written of below. No. Not a single image capturing the forthcoming description; the closest being one alone on a horizon looking horribly like the default desktop image for Windows XP.

It was the height of summer and the tree in question stood on a small bushy bank, rising tall and well above the hedge below. Its leaves were so plentiful and lush that not a hint of branch was visible—an aspect integral to the below—despite being able to see sky through the odd gap here and there. The sensible thing would’ve been to take a picture of my own, but in resisting the march of the smart phone, I’ve had to use an photo—lovely, it must be said—that doesn’t match the image conveyed.

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