How many hours have I been out here? Has it been days? Weeks, even? It's all a blur in this bright, white chaos. I pull my collar to my cheeks, the meager cloth of my garment doing little to stave off my continuing descent into hypothermia.
It stopped being cold some time ago, roughly the time that I had given up any prospect of trudging another damnable inch from where I am now huddled. Presently, I am all too aware that I may never leave this tundra. The warmth is just too overbearing. I remember hearing that warmth is a sign that you're in the final stages. That's good. Nobody ever told me how tedious dying in a blizzard could be.
But still, there's something calming about all of this. The forceful gale around me has a certain beauty as it catches each tiny whisp of snow in its unseen tendrils, tossing them all around me, dusting my beard and hair with the chilled ivory powder.
Never had I dreamt that something so beautiful could presage something so hideous.
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