December — marzipan fruit, cold libraries, Tchaikovsky-flavoured dreams, wine-red ink, tangerine-scented fingertips, the same line of a poem written on a scrap of paper over and over again, trying out a new brand of tea, fabric bound books, the fresh-cool scent of pines, daydreaming of wandering the halls of the Eremitage while snow drifts by the tall glass windows













