Removing colour from my thoughts, I formed a winter ball. I threw it. The dead were uncounted. There was a distinct lack of emotion. A decreasing range of accountability. My histories became few. Then one. I wanted it to be like life, but I had nine, eight, seven micro-seconds with which to work. I went to shape it, and sprang it on you. No criminal consciousness. No automatic compensation. No new aftermath. I can’t count, but I try.
I am at home behind me. My history is an international house of calling cards. I fail to connect because I am dead or dying. It is surprising. I once considered skiing, skating, sliding, until finally I sat exhausted with my hat on. Gloves on. Long scarf and boots on. The centre of my house, on balance, is sub-zero. I peel off my socks and warm them in the microwave. I place my feet on a pillow. I wonder if this is like life. Colossal subroutines amass and disseminate above me. Then I’m right back up again, multihued historian among the clouds.