Dradle, Dradle, Dradle

There's somethings acutely magical about winter. Daylight retreats faster, making my days infinitely more bearable. In the air is a crisp, almost metallic smell, not unlike the taste of blood in one's mouth. Ultimately snow will make it's appearance, delicate flakes hissing gently as they nestle in amongst their brothers. Unfortunately with winter comes the impending bastardization of Christmas. Even a lackluster economy can't slake the blood lust of Hallmark, the biggest perpetrator of poisonous, yule-tide prose. Perhaps I'll become a Jew...