It is the dead of winter. I could not be unhappier. This is no season for an Aesthete--I spend my days suffering in silk pyjamas while my soul is crushed beneath the dead weight of this most sterile season. I would die for a season in Hell... But even drunkenness has lost its charms... Oh to be a frozen ferret--both immune from the suffering of the world and yet immaculately preserved!
Is died ut annus eram prognatus.
Cerberus is home from the taxidermist. He sits atop my mantelpiece, twisted just so, eternally trapped in his marvelous dance. Oft his squeaks haunt my drug-addled brain, as though trying to communicate to me what exists on the other side.
Squeaks of warning or squeaks of welcome? I know not the ferret's tongue.
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