On the third day after Christmas

The preponderance of his predilection tripped over the piece of poetry and stuck like a fly on a fly strip, wounded and trapped, screaming, the incessant buzz without the ability to carry on, he earnestly stood his ground and only he knew that it wasn’t resolve that kept him in place but inertia. 

A lack of fresh air undermines peace.

Today I pushed my hand through the floor of my cabin. Rotten it was and rotten it’s been and we didn't even know it. My wife and I have been enjoying the peace and solitude of our cabin for years. It is our escape, our secret, ours. Today I discovered that one third of the area beneath the floor is covered in a thick plant like, creamy white, porous skin of mold with runners of fingering thin root-like appendages slowly crawling over the substructure, permeating and softening it to the point where the entire thing is in danger of ruin. The night before, the wood stove warmed the room while we sipped honey brandy from wine glasses.