Five this morning caught me once again chugging chocolate milk and staring idly at the magnetic poetry, trying to ignore the plunging temperature.
Our house is faint of heart and it and I are at odds. Every night it offers it's effing throat to the cold and bleeds off heat. And every morning we get up and provide its daily ressurrection, filling its lungs and blowing on its fingers in a perverse promethean cycle.
And all in the name of fire. How appropriate.
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