I feel it all. Every tiny pricking sensation, every chill, every bit of sadness, every spec of guilt, every little, stinging pain. I feel it all. As if it was all just minutes, not centuries, ago
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One's own complaints are always significant, at least to oneself. I might complain about being cold in this horrific weather and I would allow no one to tell me that this is unimportant.
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In short, child: your complaints are valid.
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My hands are cold and it's hard to type.
Where are you, other than frightening mortals and stirring your daughter into action?
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