Blow, blow, thou winter wind, thou art not so unkind as man's ingratitude


No one can ever say that Dorian Gray was never offered absolution, because he was, in Sibyl Vane. But she died, didn't she? And his hand murdered Basil, the hand that drove a dagger through the hideous portrait that was his soul. This blog is the documented Dorian's Vane, the last brilliant stop before the edge, the Could-Be life. A soul is not worth eternal youth, though. I will hold onto mine yet.

I stared at the fake Christmas trees on the church stage all morning, glimmering rows of cream light near hypnotic. It's different than it used to be, sitting there. No near-tears today. But truth, still. Still truth.

The world is white, white, white. I have never seen snow in such a smooth, jumbled crystal, nettles of ice pinned to each other in minute spidering mountains. Clean, new, finished. Holding vane-innocence a little while yet (in a world that still turns white when it grows colder)