Walls are cold.
I used to think that rooms were warm. I always remembered thinking everything was cold until they took me in, and then all I experienced was warm and pleasant. At one point, I thought that all life was like that: sunny with hardly any chance of precipitation. I thought that there would always be a rainbow after a storm, and a sunrise to usher in a new born chance. Only now do I realize the flaw in my hypothesis. It was not the rooms themselves that were warm, or any other temperature for that matter; rather, it was the people, and in turn memories tied to them that would heat the environment up. Without people, a room would just be lifeless, a void without warmth..
A sudden drop in my body temperature shakes my consciousness from my recent enlightenment to rack my brain for some new desperate measure I can take in a futile effort of self-preservation. As my pitiful body shivers in a corner of this monochrome hell, I realize the true depth of my words.
Walls are cold.