Cold morning

Last night in Vienna. We floated on the blue Danube, clap-clapped along with Radetzky and felt better for moving on from all that new year bullshit. 

January 2nd: get on with it. As the world still sleeps in a fugue, we cast off the festive period and head for yonder hills. The cold is a purge. The air is vital, the light anew. Into the white-blue. There is no-one. We walk in space. We haul up hillsides knee-deep in sinky frost. Everything is parched, but positive, ice fresh. The pure frozen wind is a foe, but welcome in a way. Blow wind, through thy cheeks. Numb. 

The dark returns. Days so ephemeral. Ravaged. But we are reborn: the Elysian hills.