It is a familiar cold. The sweater you never wear, buried deep in the trends of your dresser, buried deep and snug and crinkled. From that winter when you were twelve. When your cheeks blushed a rosy hue. It is everything it was before and nothing like what it is. It is a motion picture. It is a morning bell, ringing ringing ringing. It is a piano on a sexless highway, creakily rolling, notes pressed down upon by a single hand burned to a crisp, limbs scattered on the worn tar black from the light. It is yesterday. It is tomorrow. It was today.
It is Savernake Forest. It is jagged oak fingers reaching out. It is scattered coppices and winding meadows, prickly scrubs and wretched heath. It is sadness. It is slovenly. It is you. You are the sloth. You are sitting on the branches, are never climbing. You crawl sideways, looking up. Waiting for the rain. The clear, clean rain. [Buy The King of Limbs.]