At some point in the night, you get cold. The formerly warm socks turn clammy. One part of your shoulder feels...off? Your fingers don't work so well.
You wait.
One day, I will be warm again. We wait.
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A wise man once said to me, "We must talk, you and I." But mostly it was him talking, and mostly about Aristotle. Which only goes so far. So I stabbed him with a knife. Now you and I must talk, but I have learned. I keep you at a distance and I carry a shotgun. Also, if Aristotle didn't know shit about the sky, why the hell should we believe him about comedy OR tragedy?
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