Almost the end of the second month of the year.

The island is small – standing at one end you can see the other, the church in between, and the shore; from it’s highest jagged point you can see all the seas.

But, it’s far away – you must travel the edges of the wild lands, where ancient watch-towers line the peaks; decorated with statues that some say are Roman or beyond, until you reach the abandoned delivery van wherein it all lays.

Even then you must take a giant stride across from the mainland’s edge.

And the Island is old. Older than time some say, though they speak in cliché.

And it is hard – made of dark stone. Some say that they were thrown here by the Giant Wrath that roamed and harmed these parts before the dawn of days. If it’s true they took no care because the island is ragged to the look, ragged to the touch too – though grass has grown and covered much of the confusion.

Only the highest point, The Needle, is barren.

Except today it is shrouded in mist so the surrounding seas may not even be there.

No one can tell for sure.

editor's note - hopefully this will make a bit more sense tomorrow