This morning the streets were steaming after the night's rain froze. An empty cathedral, cold. Dies Irae, the Summerset fountains flow into sunken gardens. Awaiting for me at the gates, a man wearing a nondescript coat with an indescript face leads me to a dark hall lit by lanterns. We shook hands as we parted ways and his cold fingers jolted me like an electric shock. The adjoining room opens full and the light simmers under the cresting sun. The stained glass windows depict Nativity and I notice the figures frozen under a sheath of ice. The room is left with a heavy sadness. Dies Illa, extending down into the open room, the silence is crushing and welcome.

Christmas, just around the corner, like a thief in the night. Soon we'll see the snow build along the road. Soon we'll see ourselves under the Northern Lights, when the night is exceptionally clear. And we will know our limitations in the incandescent dream.