When I come home for the holidays, it begins to snow. Stuck in our old townhouse, I go on winding metaphysical journeys inspired by the old books stacked in my room. I have not lived here in years, and dust has settled in stillness across the leather volumes, each inscribed with the name of a person I admire. They had the courage to have ideas and the patience to put their ideas where they would not be lost. Within the silence of snow my imagination rises up, ushered by words long interred, and I attempt to trace it onto paper.