when will we be able to tell all we know freely, openly? some winds never die. the rustle of skeletal grasses quivering in their dormancy reveals that winter, too, is a vivid season. yet some don't see it so. to glaze over the top in a fretful haste is to misname the world. and yourself. there are lives pressed into the grain of patience that deep eyes and inaudible breaths draw out. a sharp eye withers not. and echoes resound in every crack of silence.