December.

December.
That foggy line that rests between the giddy, cheerful spirits of the swanky season's stigma, and the dull, dreadful cold that resonates in the floorboards beneath frozen toes,too lazy to wash another week's load of candy-cane striped socks.
Everything looks, tastes, and smells of cheer, of pleasure.
Plants droop; dead; smitten by the frosty frozen air that signifies the time to paint our rooftops like our fingernails, bright red and glossy.
The air thins, but the rooftops seem to breath more than they have all year.
Dreaded decisions must be made before the new year.