January Demands an Unspoken Sacrifice

We;re in that odd January land now, where it's not really cold, but doesn't feel like anywhere else but January. The streets have that odd monochrome look about them - colour drained away - aside from odd flashes of brightness, the red of a post box say, that have miraculously managed to stay away from January's fadings.
When I walk to work in the morning, the air is fresh and points towards spring, but the murky light is a mockery of morning - the idea of morning as dreamt by the small hours themselves - if such tiny and lightless hours could be said to think.
Night still falls to early, and the nights that fall in January seem heavy things. January is ome great god that demands great sacrifice... but January is always so remote that it was unable to tell us what that sacrifice might be.