This is where I live.
It is cold.
And ancient now.
Sometimes my eyelashes freeze and I pinch my fingers round them when I am back inside with my gloves off.
But me? I don’t miss wet dew or soft grass that crushes and never breaks underfoot.
I don’t miss leafy trees or blooming shrubs.
I miss only the gently drifting snow, the sharp sun of new morning.
A snowing cold is not so lonely. Even pale sun, it needn’t be bright…but this frozen monotony, this always-frost, this gray…
I am just tired. I am tired and going to sleep.
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