I no longer get cold in the winter. That is to say I no longer care if I get cold. Of course I am affected by the wind as it hurts my face; I am blinded by the snow that covers my hair and shoulders, tripped by the ice under my feet, covering the streets, invading my fingertips as it travels up arm, shooting across my spine, burrowing into my chest, giving birth to one cold breath after another. I’m heaving and choking on the cold air that bites at my teeth and clings to even a dead soul like mine. Yes, I feel this winter, a ballad of walking death, beautiful in it’s whites and winds, bitter and forever in its icy glare, it’s frozen grasp over all it touches.