Walking. My face is whipped by sharp icicles falling fast from the black sky. Tiny, perfect formations of frozen water particles, each and every one of them unique, supposedly. I can't tell, they all sting the same as they crash into my cold cheeks. I'm wondering why I'm doing this to myself. “Sure you want to go for a walk in this?” ask Ingemar as I exit the car. “Oh, but the warmth of our fireplace will be even better after I've been outside!” I answer with the cockiness of a person whose feet are still dry and cozy. Good thought in theory, and one I'm eating as I'm walking in the hostile snow that doesn't fall so much as attacks me sideways. I'm half regretting my outdoor initiative, but then I see a horse standing
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