We know the sun will shrink into a crystal shuttlecocks. A form of capital despair. No iced wings above or around us. The horizontality of the white calls us to sleep and demands that we abandon our bodies. To barter life for death. Inexpressible anguish. Slow coagulation of the senses. Mental fire drained. Desires clothed in coldness. I don't know why but I insist on being here. Time doesn't advance. Time devours. Less time than it takes to think about it and the perpendicularity of my shadow is already different. The anomaly of foreshadowing thoughts goes hand in hand with low temperatures. No crossroads over here. A frozen face of white reality. Unfissured. The sleeves of nights and days are counted so clearly. The breathing dough of life has no further need to speak.