Insulated
I'm protected from the outside right now, from the piercing darkness of clear winter skies that can stare a coldness straight into bone, the contemptuous icy breaths that sting with a lingering bitterness. The night is a violent kind of calm, like an abandoned armory of bladed weapons. Is it strange that I miss it? I long for the thousand wonders that occur in it every day, even the terrible ones. I sometimes try to research some of the things I have seen and heard, but it doesn't exist as data on computer screens and hard drives. Too many things defy explanation and compel a willful ignorance from the world. I don't want to have that defense and I don't really care about living to an old age. I worry more about taking too long to decompose.