Have you seen the city in Winter?
And I always ride the bus in gloves.
Feeling so cold, inside and out, should certainly not feel so right?
Is it true that by dousing myself in furs and boots,
I am most at home when I may see the air I breathe?

A hill slips down into a city below,
A church sitting boldly amongst a fading background,
Slowly swallowed by the sky in fog.
Houses sit straight upon it's slant,
Each with character, charm, seperate colour and strange windows.
Some divided by a gap only a cat could happily walk through,
and see a slit of city.
I stood here for a while in the cool of winter,
I waited, allowing the icey air in my stomach to formulate.
Numbly, and finally, i felt excitement.

There's an inkling pain.
A small, throbbing sensation,
Denying me entire calm or happiness,
For I should always be prepared,
And yet I'd like to fall away with you,
Down a hill I have never seen the end of.

Drinks are warmer inside,
Wine so sweet and mince pies so fresh,
A scent filling a house like I have dreamt of in nostalgic moments.
All the floors are wooden, most things painted in white,
And yet character fills a room in scribbled, draped ways.

Will I be allowed to progress in the warmth between mattress and quilt?
Somewhere in the garden a bird lands,
I turn over and morning sinks in.
The click of a camera, and womens laughter linger in the room,
Quiet though we are.
That ochestra still plays some where in the past,
confined in this room with us as we are.
I'll never know another glance like that.

Oh sweetheart, I simply and secretly enjoy the choice.
And I always seem to be packing when I fall in,
And there's always fire in the sky.