the forest in winter is a quiet place. removed from its context, the repeated lighting of the match appears a futile action, its impotence emphasized by the forest's hunger to swallow the flame into the expanse of pine and snow.

but outside of the forest, the match lights every candle, and it becomes a sanction of celebration. the flame always gives heat, but its symbolic warmth is only a ghost in a forest free from human traditions, and only i am there to confirm its existence.