Cold
Making a mockery out of life! Despicable and disgusting, and utterly worthless. What am I doing? Struggling along, laughing, believing that somehow there is some way I can reap what I do not sow. Even while the fields grow barren and the relentless wind wears away at the soil, I plot and scheme behind closed doors on how, tomorrow, I shall steal my neighbor's grain stock, instead of growing my own today. Ridiculous.--
My hands are always stiff from cold. The blood hardly running in constricted veins and dying capillaries. Broken nails and garish cuts, and my hands so cold so cold.
