A BA WON'T HELP YOU
SLOW  THE   FALLING
SNOW. GRAB COAT AND
BOOTS  FROM   CART;
STACK   THE  BLOCKS
TOGETHER    TIGHTLY
AND QUICKLY. READY.

            BUT,   ON
            I SLED TO
 THE CITY. THERE THEY
 LIVE IN  LOG CABINS.

       EYES SCAN
       THE
        SKYLINE.
       FROM HERE
       IT  LOOKS
       LIKE  THE
       BUILDINGS
   ARE BACKWARDS
   RISING HIGH
   INTO THE SKY.

   I HEAD WITHIN
   AND FIND HIM
   WAITING FOR
         ME,  AS
         ALWAYS,
         AT  HIS
         FLAT IN
          SECTOR
         SEVEN.

   HE GRABS  MY
     HAND. HELD
   IN THE COLD,
   I SEE  WORDS
   FLOW    FROM
   HIS LIGHT
   RED   LIPS.
    WITH JUST 2
      LINES  HE
    BREAKS  THE
   ICE. LIPS
   TOUCH   MY
    PALM; LED
       INSIDE;
   NOSES TOUCH.

 I WANT TO
 PUSH AWAY
 FOREVER.
     BUT, NO: HEAD
     FEELS NUMBER.

      I CAN'T  TAKE
      THIS;  I COME
      FOR SOMETHING
 ELSE. LET ME
 LOAD MY SLED
 AND BE  OFF.

I PINE THE SCREEN; IT FREES
ME FROM HIS LOOKS AND GAME.
I TURN MY HEAD DOWN AND GO.

ON RETURNING HOME, I
PILE  THE  LOGS  AND
TRY  TO  COMMUNICATE
WITH  THE SKY.  BUT,
THE  STARS  ARE  TOO
REMOTE.  SO,  I  SIT
INSIDE;  LOG IN  THE
FIRE, HEADPHONES ON,
BACK  TO  THE FROZEN
WALL;   SNOWED   IN.

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