There is a lie for every man bitten by the bitter cold winter taste of death-
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and he may keep it locked away, forever and to never become a lesson for him.
He builds a world of function and wears a fashionable statement amongst the
armchair warriors that rattle cages for reactions-then toils with some time
that was once spent, now lays in a bottle of wine, possibly floating within
on a tiny raft of sin.
Can we remember the coldest trembling, snow shaking avalanche that swept this
poor man into our office, and no suit would best fit, but a grin and a
Let us not part without knowing everything about what he has done to make us
undo ourselves unto him, and leave us liking him more-that can be a good
start, if we remind us to remember ourselves first, else we get lost in it-
you know, the something we can't undo thing.
Whistle to him, see if music is a temptation yet, or is he deaf too-then if
that be, do not share any news for him to bare, especially if we shall be
the bears that are eating, not feeding.
If he comes to us again, after remembering him for what he was, let us not
speak, nor shall we share our clothes or put shoes on his feet-He will
be the leader, and the only thing he will answer to, now, is his own name.