The cold had made him a leper. It turned his toes black until he cut them off one by one in his deep-set rage that burned bright enough to allow him illumination to write by but not hot enough to keep him warm. He contemplated each severed digit and wished he could – fantasized he would – pop each one past her lips - one by one - and shove them down her throat. She would consume him properly then, piece by piece, until there was noting of him left. Until he ceased to exist and he would tear the pages of his journals out – one by one – and feed them to her as well – and he would rip the memories of him from the lights in her eyes and force them into her belly as well. He would make her carry that weight. Very carefully, he swaddled his big toe in a lace handkerchief and placed it in the gravid chest with his journals. He would.