Seasons do not last.

Always a time and season. Always.

Because I am not sure what this season holds for me.
It is a time that I am aware of the insides, a time where I am attempting to sort it out in spurts and gasps, a time whose days have been kind at work, but brutal within.

How do I keep singing when the evening comes? How do I prepare for the evening?

Words.

Words matter to me.

But I am not the most skilled at their use, nor their tune. Where do we go from here?