This dream has perhaps become but a steady stream of rusty complaints, an oxidized monument to complaining, a work not unlike the Kagerō diary...just not nearly as well written. See, now there is so little to say that I am resorting to self-cannibalization, speaking on the speaking done of past speaking. There might be a limit to what there is to be said in this dream–perhaps we will rise from bed before the quest is complete, or there is a point where words will fail wholly and the drawings will have to speak for themselves...fie that day! Yes, this is my rusty tribute to navel-gazing.

In any case. For reasons beneath noting here, a sense of dread is rising within and I must quickly go to bed, because I need to wake early and it is already late. A full day coming so soon, how is one to stay awake? Perhaps by airing complaints on this trivial, familiar issue...Nevertheless, staying up too late and doing things poorly, these are the staples of my life. And one day I would like to eschew the shackles that bind me so, to wade away from failure to soak in mediocrity. To do life over again. The urge makes one want to cry some days, has made one cry some days. Ah, my navel-gazing! The hallmark of a hard life.

Outside it is snowing. Two days ago flakes fell and the warm weather turned to a relieving December chill, a thin layer of snow with ice beneath, clutching some cold close to us ever since. Then tonight, an hour or three after the sky blackened, white found its way down once more, where it is accumulating new layers and the wind is whirling in the deepening slumber. How long until it melts? Here in this place not very north, snow rarely persists a week or two–more often a handful of days. Moreover, in these times of unnatural weather–it has been far too warm–it can be hard to take solace in the cold and warmth alike...everything is either a relief or worry–never the more intimate comfort or hardship, not yet. Perhaps when life grows leaner and we once again need the intimate companionship of the seasons...then we will need to amend our acquaintanceship. Yes, as weather changes there are few shoulders left for the human species to lean on, or so one might speculate. We live among our own artifacts. "Look on my Works, ye Mighty, and despair!"