Severe. Yet still we’re back and forth in this cold, New Haven 4 o’clock (absence of) light. The concrete is cast in the color of, well, bones––and, above it, a sub zero wind thrill. Is this, we wonder, what ground looks like when it freezes? And is this how it feels, unyielding like this, when it’s too cold for life? And if this color is not concrete itself freezing, then who painted it this fascinating Shade of Gray? Is it you or I? The wind whips so sharply that the senses (indeed) become indistinguishable from each other (am I smelling this cold?). Extremes even conflate — so cold it burns, so good you’re bad, baby. Today, I walked with my neck bowed, biting into my neckwear like it was all I had left, and I wondered Who? What / Where? When and, if we must, why? You say you can’t feel your own face anymore, you notice how your own hair and your own mother-loving drool freezes to your lips, and I just can’t stop following my breath as it stretches distantly away from me, almost touching You, the stranger.