"A self-respecting artist must not fold his hands on the pretext that he is not in the mood."
Pyotr Ilyich Tchaikovsky
Along the hall side, the wall of windows is covered by drapes of a medium weight, enough to hold out most drafts. But when I take my foot from its sock, I find that Winter has crept in at our heels, and sunk into the wooden tiles: a seasonal infestation. We all pull the cold floor face. Toothy weather fastens on bare feet. It hurts, until it numbs and discolours, stopping blood flow: symptoms of a poisonous temperature. Make use of this logic: if I can pop a flying kick with these comatose feet, when I have circulation, surely, unstoppable laudable fantasticness awaits.
(Do you know it? The equation we all hope to be true: Struggle + dedication = superlatives.)
Stomp, stump, back to socks: back to boots, back in the car with the heater taking too long to find a warm point.
The radio works; strings out Tchaikovsky to the chills of a vibrant night.