He was surrounded on every side by water. He walked upon an ocean, a land defined only by its temperature. He knew himself to be the same, acutely so, and knew that he too would freeze, his skin flaking off into snow with the sharp wind's ministrations, should he remain too long. The land claimed him; and only his defiant will, fueled by the unceasing suffering that defined his consciousness here, could prevent it from making good on its demands.

Sometimes, within the bearable enclosure of his tent, running an ungloved finger along the vessels of his arm, he could sense that they had already begun to crack. That they would soon shatter, and he would flow to his origin in a glorious scarlet return.

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