I'm not sure where the path out of these woods will be, so I am throwing tiny paper airplanes weighed down with matches in every direction. There is too much space that is dark and cold, and too many monsters waiting behind trees and in bushes and in tiny spider holes to grab us as we walk by. Fast as lightning, we might go missing.
It's troubling, the amount of time left, fighting to change what doesn't want to change in an effort to shift the view of all of those years. One long corridor of days after days and only monsters grabbing at our ankles to break up the time. From far away they sometimes look like kittens, which is how they get us to come too close. It's easier to snatch than it is to chase.
The flowers are here, springing up everywhere, unfurling and breaking up the winter's greens and browns. With luck, one of them will have some good news somewhere inside. My supply of optimism is running dangerously low.