It's the death of the old year - the leaves have started to change their colours from life to death. The change is inevitable- how similiar to this change of mine. Inside, my colours change from life to death. This last year is dying now and it seems I'm dying with it. Nothing makes sense. Nothing is there. I don't know how to live anymore. It seems unimportant now that the leaves have forgotten how. The year behind me turns colder- my blood freezes within my veins as my cross falls from my fingertips to the ice beneath my surface.