I remember once, sitting for hours on a winter's night under a barren birch tree.

Delicate crystals gaily tumbled from the heavens, their innocence and purity reflected in each glisten of their intricate design, only to vanish at the moment their beauty became apparent.

Brilliant stars shone with strength and might, bearing the hopes and dreams of children and the vast unknown mysteries of the universe. A glimpse of hope, they sparkled in a sea of oblivion, an unattainable goal, a hopeless wish.

Distant jingle bells rang to a jolly tune, perching smiles upon to cherry red faces of shoppers passing by, while sheltering them from the destination of their spare change.

The wise old birch stood wonderfully decorated in layers of blanketing snow, while still grey and lonesome from its lost leaves.

To whom does one turn for warmth in December?

An abyss of life and death is all I can remember.