A January air has the putrid stench of mortified immobility. Every breath inhaled
is sparse and wanting, every breath exhaled is dense and taxing. January exists
for the sake of science; it knows nothing of the whims of the human soul. It would
just as soon cut you open and take what it wants as let you deliver on your own.
It speaks only in Latin based medical terms and regards birth and death as a purely
physiological phenomena without ever acknowledging their existence. January is merely
a false beginning.