This land of white Winter bitter with its piercing winds. The faces braving the outdoors weathered and worn down to a single, shared expression. Cold. And the grass, not brown with its frosty death, but white with the frozen dew. Frigid nails snapping beneath the wintry crunch of the Siberian trudge. The air a sharp stab to the lungs, and each exhale a blood-flavored fog. Hands numb and mind reduced to a single track set repeating itself until adhered. Warmth. Warmth. Warmth.

I can't recall where I heard it, but someone somewhere told me of a passage that made them feel the cold through the words in a way that made their bones chill instantly, their lips chap and their fists clench trying to muster warmth into their body...while indoors already smothering a fire with their form. I don't know if I can write that...but I know I can write what I just did...and if it makes no one else cold...it makes me frigid with the thought of yesterday...and today playing "fool the Privates" with the APU. My hands got so cold I couldn't tell what I was holding. Everything felt the same...like the stab of thousands of needles intent on seeing my fingertips bled dry.

There's an entry I wrote this morning in my journal...I'll post it some other time. I'm not in the mood. And I made a pretty interesting background for my other diary... Well, I altered the one I decided to go with. The old one-[click here]. The new one-[click here].

Maybe tonight...I pray, I'll finally be able to sleep. Sweet dreams beautiful universe.

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And that's that.
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To write them.
Heart vs mind.