What a bitter chill. Above the frozen earth, a layer of snow is tormented by the November wind, swirling past my feet like the sand in an hourglass that lead to this winter. It's dark here early these days and there are still more grains to fall, but I'm feeling the bite already. My coat does little to shelter me and my fingers are painfully numb. My legs are stinging now and torrents of wind kill the serenity; evoke the urge to hide. I'm tired, but I still stand here. Time is unaltered, but I can't repress thoughts of progression. Do I have farther to go, and when I get there, will the chill be gone? I'm feeling utterly frigid, and yet still