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August 7, 2003:

All your life your hatred of cold, as if triggered by some half-conscious memory of disaster.

Hairs on end on the flesh of your arms as the heat of your body trickles away like blood spilling from open arteries.

No jacket can protect from a wind like this. Until at last the cold penetrates the bones and settles inside of you, where life should be instead.

Is this what death is?

In a previous lifetime did you die of exposure?

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