The heat roars on. It is the defensive voice of a paternal authority. The cold perhaps is the temptress. That bitch. With a carefully crafted, lethal power. You know it will sting you. Still you want to touch it. Your fingers are tingling. Tagore whines in the background. And a ghoulish voice of the feminist artiste. If ever there was a bourgeois apocalypse, this is it. You drown in soft holiday spirits. Naturally, think of home and hearth. Lost loves. Perhaps new ones. Ones that look like the old ones. Corpses of cigarettes lay as testimony to the cruel power of the north wind. These cigarettes had tried to burn. And burn they did. But they fought a gallant battle like little foot soldiers. Their death brought you false tears. Crocodiles had actually cried, their tears had been soaked into their dry scales. You sip some more holiday music. From someplace warm. Where they wear bright colors. Where the war even looks pretty. On the internet. You like wars. They make you want to do things. Get out into the north winds lashes. The north wind mocks you. You look at the dead cigarettes. Their deaths were necessary to bring you prolonged survival. It was sad that they died. They must have had wives and children inside the paper boxes. And what of that? Everyone is mourned by someone. Who mourns the death of the north wind?