And things begin to freeze. Whereas the rain was an inconvenience with the typewriter, now the cold sets in. I put on more layers. I write in shorter bursts and walk to keep warm. Even my sailing socks, with a layer of reflective blanket sewn in cannot keep the cold out. Agnes complains and drills holes in the paper in one spot, refusing to advance. I know how she feels. Every thought is encased in ice and must be cracked loose and named with a fumbling cold brain.