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Oversized pullovers, leggings, soft socks
Mid-morning naps
Slim poetry tomes, manga series, novellas
Twinkling lights, glitter
Crackling flames
Long conversations
Black tea, tannic on the tongue
Tying loose ends
Year-end tidying
Old time radio shows, jazz
Yeasty sweets baking in the oven
Little yawns marking the prelude for an afternoon nap
Bare trees, sharp branches cutting upwards
Beautiful, bleak skies
Cold toes curling under a heavy comforter

It was a cold, still afternoon with a hard, steely sky overhead, when he slipped out of the warm parlour into the open air. The country lay bare and entirely leafless around him, and he thought that he had never seen so far and so intimately into the insides of things as on that winter day when Nature was deep in her annual slumber and seemed to have kicked the clothes off. Copses, dells, quarries, and all hidden places, which had been mysterious mines for exploration in leafy summer, now exposed themselves and their secrets pathetically, and seemed to ask him to overlook their shabby poverty for a while, till they could riot in rich masquerade as before, and trick and entice him with the old deceptions. It was pitiful in a way, and yet cheering—even exhilarating. He was glad that he liked the country undecorated, hard, and stripped of its finery. He had got down to the bare bones of it, and they were fine and strong and simple. He did not want the warm clover and the play of seeding grasses; the screens of quickset, the billowy drapery of beech and elm seemed best away; and with great cheerfulness of spirit he pushed on towards the Wild Wood, which lay before him low and threatening, like a black reef in some still southern sea.
– Kennethe Grahame (The Wind in the Willows)