I don’t know about the cold. I am sad without hands. I can’t speak for the wind which chips away at me. When pulling a potato, I see only the blue haze. When riding an escalator, I expect something orthopedic to happen Sinking in quicksand, I’m a wild Appaloosa. I fly into a rage at the sight of a double-decker bus, I want to eat my way through the Congo, I’m a double-agent who tortures himself and still will not speak. I don’t know about the cold, But I know what I like. I like a tropical madness, I like to shake the coconuts and fingerprint the pythons fevers which make the children dance. I am sad without hands, I’m very sad without sleeves or pockets. Winter is coming to this city, I can’t speak for the wind which chips away at me.