The cold

Listen here. The cold, what it'll to do ya is, it'll splinter ya straight. Ain't no worse thing than sidling leaden-feet-like purposeless through the lightless tributaries of this made conurbation. Better to walk, seek the end of your benighted path fore moving to the next, and we do such things when the spine's tinned with the season's frost an motiveless psychosis. It was seven-below-freezing on the Centigrade scale last night. Sensible men have been forged out of less. The pitiable were not seen, and I, skin unyoking from flesh, fingers numb like the heart of my lover, breath phlegmy amid daggers of ill intent, felt alive!