Pulling the covers over. Sewing myself into the dark. An act of self-defense that converts me into an insulator of space, a material to keep the drafts out.



In the snow, pulling down the walls, exposing old wires, standing still, shivering, staring at the moon. No one else around for miles, except the waters silent in the distance.
--"This is not the way to do it" sayz she.
--"Says who?" I sez.
She gives a impatient huff in the cold air, a shifty cloud disappears in front of her face. She walks away to stand in another dark. But I own this bit. Mine, my personal little cold-land. I continue to tug at the panelling, resigned and breathing.