Your hands are always arctic cold. Even in the Summer time your hands feel like liquid nitrogen canisters. I made up a story as to why that is. When you we’re four in December living in Detroit, you built a snowman you just knew was going to come alive. You couldn’t stand to touch snow with your gloves on because you needed to be able to feel it, so you removed them. You stayed outside for an entire hour, until your hands were completely numb and you we’re so focused that you completely ignored the pain from the wind burn. You saw how the sun hit the snow and glistened like the moon on a clear night. Earlier in the day you watched from your window as your perfect winter paradise came to life and you knew that you had to go and meet it. By the time your mother realized what you had done, your snowman was complete and through wounded hands you smiled as she sat you next to the fire place wrapped in a blanket. From that day forward you had sealed your fate because once the snow felt the warmth of your hands, it had to know you just as much as you wanted to know it.