we walked upon fields of white
surrounded by eyes as crimson moon in a summer night, while cold
cuddled us with all its grace and might.

1 am: 
my fingers ache,
ice-cream goes through my mind,
that warmth… melting, melting, melting…
while I type my shape in stars whose present shape
I fail to grasp in my present state.

to think I would write…
to think I would write in a state I would never write.
and in the darkness summon things from a place behind my back,
invoke them, give them shape!

I am changing, somehow…

as the cold gnaws at my skin I realize that I am what I should’ve been:
I am the peak– the peak of what human being would be if humanity ceased to exist.
I am at the peak… 

cold! – fire burns the wool from my gloves
and that stench… I am drenched in the water born of snow,
In the water born of air, in the water born of flesh.
I am at the peak…
I am the peak.


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