We recoil from the strangeness of the landscapes, wrapping ourselves in the recognisable blend of our presuppositions.
The coldness isn’t there.
A visceral warmth permeates the world with a smear of yearning for a winter that never comes.
This is the manufacturing emphasis of the human influence – a reality of seasons injected with industrial decay and the disorientating effect of a lack of adherence to blindingly obvious obligations.
There is no manifestation of withering – only a bland nonentity of crippled weather.