The world is wide and white and empty, and you remember (not for the first time, or the last) that you hate snow.
You never liked it to begin with. It's cold, but then again the cold doesn't touch you, not after they turned you into one of those beasts. It's wet and it sticks to your clothes, though, your hair, your bare skin, and it leaves tracks
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[another minutes while he accepts the reality that there's anything to reply to.]
[one more as he takes the comment and the reality and puts them both into context.]
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[9_9]
Or floating boots so you won't leave tracks anymore!
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I guess snow is like beer. Or maybe coffee. Not anchovies, though, because those were always good.
Cigars. Maybe snow is like cigars.
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[...]
[PLEASE JUST LET HIM DIE WITH SOME DIGNITY LEFT]
[and some comprehension of what the hell you are even talking about.]
What.
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That wasn't meant to be public knowledge.
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Ah~! Then why did you put it where people can see it?
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