The Gathering Of Dead Wood - Driven, Pinched In Faces Between The Strain Of Van Gogh'S Setting - Had All The More Realism Hastening Down That Leaden Street. Churning Sockets, Burdened With The Duress Of Suffering, The Street In Vigorous Winter Raced Like A Bootblack Up From The River. Hedged By Black Stems Called Trees, Rows Of Withered Houses And Dim Bread Shops Propositioned Rough Headlights Along A Promenade Of Ice Stalks And Careening Streetlamps. Fast In The Cold, Faces Were Juggernauts Skating Treacherously Over The Pond Of That Closed City.