"Its cold today.", i say, to the window, as i have many times. Out there, where the trees are barren twigs and snow like the silence of death sheets the sussurusing leaves.

My weary bones ache as i put the kettle on. Its so cold, around here, that its long since seeped into my bones, slowing all my movements to a dutiful torpor.

I sit in my chair and lean back. Or i try to, anyway, yet soon the chill has me on the edge of my seat. My mind wanders, thinking of the epochs of my life, and the many lovers that have seasoned them. They fell off, like November leaves, one by one.

The whole wide and sprawling day before me, my hands wander, and cold, bony fingers caress thin sheets of delicate paper. I relax into my chair, sighing with well remembered relief. At so old and to have just this, and another three minutes, til the kettle whistles.

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