The blue-white snow shines pink under the wakening sun, chills bite and frost darts in the air.

The sky grows dark and falls like midnight, breath vapors hanging in the air.

With raised shoulders and unhappy face, one sits down to write, to draw once more...

One cannot live without passion! That which sets the mind both alight and at ease, as if subsumed in fantasy. All dreams grow creaky and crumble without it, an ambrosia of the mind. Therefore as the days derelict by it is not enough merely to persist! A marathon cannot be called enough. I've long entertained sentiments from fiction–'with each step we die and are reborn,' 'to live is to change'–and sentiments born of idle thought, like 'the manifold forms of life do not converge on a single state: we are evolved for the information-dense, changing environment of nature, not these unchanging buildings and lifestyles we conduct our lives in. The solution to architecting mankind is not singular but multitudinous.'

Stagnation is death. Unhappiness is death. If only to steal away on a cloud, alas they float far out of reach. Even on the mountain summit, months might pass and no cloud would graze that highest point of the land. An aeroplane could, however...Wait, how'd this whole business get started? I don't even particularly like drawing. Perhaps this affair is just a 'I liked anime as an immature adolescent' business, distorted to a dangerous extreme? So dully go days like these.

30 second figure drawing poses–a little more repetition could be used in these parts, perhaps.