Days slow down in winter with a bit more centrifugal friction on the Calendar Wheel pressing against the poor frayed meat & soul of Man: Carnivalesque! 

Prize for enduring such events? The little naked Kewpies of breath we see in our sighs of relief.
 

Below Silence

I’ll keep it brief. Woke up in the middle of the night to something unfathomable. She was asleep, exhausted after a long workday with yet another staring her straight in the somnolent face. So, fearing the light a disturbance, I wrote on the darkness, a blind man, “The only sound in the atmosphere is underground, that deep connection in anticipation of the upcoming storm, below silence.” Mysterious footprints in the snow.
 

In the Remotest Mansions of the Blood

But one must awaken the duende in the remotest mansions of the blood.
                                                                                                                 — Lorca

It was brief, the last dream of night, turned morning. The scene suspect from the start. A dark, cellar-like, or cave-like chamber. The confusing image of a victim of sacrifice. At first, the sense of film, or staging. Upon reflection it was straight out of the black paint pots & palette of Ribera. Long black hair, arms strung upright in ropes, naked. The slender body revealing a straight line of hair at the pubis, cut & shaped like a stripper's. Very suspect. My dream eyes traveled up from loins to chest — no breasts. No young face, either, to match the sex as presented. Slowly the male face revealed itself in movement — a look toward his torturers as they approached, whose approach, reproached. Three men grabbed his chest & loins from behind suddenly producing lemon-sized breasts, which bled when they squeezed. The little (androgynous) penis that surfaced in place of the female pubis bled a black, oily blood, as the Lorcan ecstatic smiled at the pain & production of red & black colors defying every intention of the captors.