Therefore, we spend our time wisely collecting dead wood to burn. It keeps us warm. My cheeks turn red and hot. My fingers thaw. My contacts get dry. And I pretend that it didn’t just start flurrying outside.
But I don’t just sit there, cozy on the couch under a homemade sleeping bag, circa 1970-something as I try to read something deep and tragic and brimming with big words. I earn my keep. I cut down trees. I skillfully operate an 18-inch chainsaw. I conquer the Black Forest.