F.W.1

I think therefore I am. Rubbish. I feel ... i taste ... i smell ... i feel. The numbness of my hands spreads through my wrists and threatens the bones beneath. This is upsetting because when I feel the cold in my bones, I won't be warm for hours. No amount of furnaces, fires or blankets can cure me. Only time.

When or where or with whom will we finally wash ourselves free of the wilderness through which we wander?

Whose violin will call to us ... guide us ... lead us through the fog? The elements conspire both for our triumphant joy and ultimate undoing.

Rumbling roar, creaking door, flashing light, wailing scream. Up tempo, quickly jump, turn left, turn right, off we go. Round the bend, hold the turn, hit the horn, is this the end?

s l o

The smears upon the windshield are made of snow and road-grime and too much salt and sand. Its gritty texture will not easily wipe away, and the glare from their headlights casts strange shadows on the scene.