This year I’ve been impervious to cold and I have been impervious to heat. Standing in the cold, clad in nothing more than a shirt, waiting for the train, not even shaking. Standing under a hot shower, not even twitching before seeing that my feet have turned crimson.

The fire is blazing, the tree a living torch. In the distance, a child gleefully squeaks while sliding on cracking ice. The heat is transported to a neatly fenced off perimeter. Outside this life ablaze, only the cold. The living freeze while the dying burn up.

Emotions under a thick layer of ice. Saving face with a thick coating of lies.

The shade that the flames throw give the impression of a flailing madman. Mad men that were sad way back when. Broken shadows of themselves, memorabilia stacked on shelves.

Nothing more beautiful than broken sunlight streaming through triangulated windows on a mild winter night.

Walls painted red by the sun. In the distance, a funeral procession.

They buried him, he was still screaming. The laughter of the children was reason enough for his premature death. Doesn’t everybody want their decay to bring joy to someone else? Doesn’t everybody want to smell mahogany with their last breath?

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