suffocated by mirrors, stained by dreams

I get claustrophobic in winter, The skies close down and the sun shines anemic. The long, dalinian shadows of late summer are gone and the color of hope is lost on my palette. It takes a force of will to shake off the cold skin and to find warmth in the old paints and pencils. It is a strange world, a dark corner. I am sure it was winter when Munch screamed and Van Gogh painted his empty chair.