I've been trying so hard to capture the maudlin nostalgia of a winter's dusk drive home through the fields. The fragile golds and browns fade into mud and the delicate silver clots into the grey of neglected sweat socks at the back of a closet. Fleeting like the fond memories of childhood winter, the reality is just as empty as my windshield wiper fluid reservoir. I really need to stop listening to Werner Herzog as I work.