The Remains of Winter Remain Like the Bitter Remains of Albino Coffee Grounds

I'm going quite insane here on Soybean Island, here in the still-non-death-grip of the remaining winter.

I'm not sure what else to tell you. I know I should say nothing if I have nothing to say, yet I live in a big bowl of nothing. Being boring and living in boredom and for boredom is considered an admirable trait among the native Islanders.

Perhaps they, too, enjoy the long boring winters with their boring monochromes of white and gray and more white and gray.

No doubt: But look here! Some color to perk up the blasé snowfields. Yes a bit of orange stripe upon their barricades and oh how they love barricades here on Soybean Island! Barricades and poles and sticks with colored plastic tied to them!

There are plastic flag sticks down there in the snow:

Yes!



But, back to my sanity.

Maybe I like this season (if you can say I like anything in this soul-crushing diphthong of a place) is because it makes my mind escape its confines and lets it travel to places that don't require a firm grip on reality . . . Yes. Maybe. Probably not. But what do I care. Here I am and there I am as well:

Wow!


I wander the streets and roads and towns and fields and I wander through my mind to more places than actually exist. But what else am I to do?

You--you who do not communicate, who do not read or contemplate, you who do not even exist except in the mindful or mindless wanderings here--you do not care if I make sense or what I show or what I fail to show and I've really lost the train of thought here so I'll just remind you that that's exactly why I like the long cold frosty tail-end of winter--or at least tell myself I like it.


Life is a fence and snow pile and a pole:

It is a useless gazebo covered in snow against a boring snow-colored house:

Life is yet another photo of a cinnamon roll-looking bush with thick frosting that I don't advise you eat:

Or it is, or also is, another pointless pole in front of some rather elitist-looking homes all bleak and dark in the gray lifeless light:

Yes. That's what life is or is not . . . is . . .



And then there are these little snow-covered China hats of tin confounded with many wires carrying electricity to the very non-electric populace:

I assume these are but mighty storage bins filled with the husks or corn or the dried beads of soybeans or the bulbous blobs of stinking rutabagas.

Or perhaps this where they store the great reams of paper money that the powerful-who-are-in-power make off of subjugated human beings like me . . .

But of course I do not know because, after all, I know nothing.



Until next time if there is a next time:

Goodbye from Soybean Island