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Things hold still in a cold house. Nothing moves. Chairs and books, dirty dishes, shoes scattered around the back door, everything - holding perfectly still against the cold. I am…
When women finally rule the world, we will save a bundle on electricity during the summer, because we will require that the A/C stay turned up past 80 degrees.
well, it’s COLD, 40s is COLD here and it was there last night and i’ll catch my death, probably already have can’t make a sound, can’t swallow a thing, here it is a week after the chattering fevers and i’m still hobbling around like an old woman, she muttered (or would have muttered could she have made a sound) so of course i’ll need to put on socks even in bed cause it’s so damn COLD and where did i put them anyway? you’d think if i handknit socks i’d have a pair or two at hand, under foot, when it goes down to all hell’s froze over and i can’t even make myself heard, she groused, spilling her glass of icy applejuice—which did her throat such wonders, too—into her cozy nest of bedclothes, causing her to scream “........!” and then immediately to feel more darkly sorry than before, for herself and for her own traitorous larynx, you’d think i really had turned into an old, eccentric dwelf, the way things are piling on here, as she sopped away at the sticky wet spot, and then she looked down…
It was a cold, still night in the parking lot of the best buy, and Sylvia retreated into her tent.
I always think I’d prefer to be warm, but I am much more alive when I’m cold.
The cold still seeps through the cracks in my wall, and it is no wonder that I am still not well, though the blanket has warmly made weighty promises.
Have I moved out of Australia while I slept?
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