I'm currently sitting up... feeding the fire.
The temperature outside is plummetting, and my insulation is shot [damned mice].
So I sit and feed more wood into the flames.
My nose gets cold.
I will crawl into bed under mounds of feathers and STILL the house will get cold.
I am living a medieval existance. Feed the fire.
The same way the boys at Ypres and Passchendale. Do the work.
Doing Coolie work.
Work. Or the winter will kill you. No bargaining. No dealing. Dead.
It does not care who your father is.
It does not care who your family is.
It hammers the cold down on top of your house and if you don't feed the fire...
End of Sentence.
All go home.
You cannot argue with cold. it does not care.
My nose is cold.
I need to crawl under feathers.
and dream of spring.