Fast-Paced Winter-Diving

Timmy loves winter.

He likes the silent whiteness. Among the sledding and the making of snowmen.

Timmy likes the feeling of gathering thick snow to make weapon projectiles.

Timmy realizes that when he put his fingers in the ice there is a pleasant numb feeling.

The best kind of shield. Like a really thick glove protecting you from external stimuli.

Timmy learned the word stimuli in school.

Timmy was looking at his half-frozen hand and Timmy found out that this glove is going to kill all the blood vessels in his palm. Hypothermia.

Timmy learned hypothermia from his late father. Who died from hypothermia.

Where Timmy lived, it was always snowing.

Timmy remembered the funeral. It was beautiful.

Timmy thinks death is beautiful.

But as Timmy lay buried in the snow and looked up into the shiny subzero sun (oh the beautiful pale star) he notices the icicles around him melting.

No.

No.

Goodbye lethargy.

The sun will now melt your slumber away.

Goodbye denial.

The sun will now reveal your body, your decay.

Goodbye.

Timmy sees the wrinkles on his hands now. Pruny fingers.

Timmy sees his father's corpse now.

Timmy dies alone, when it was revealed to him that his only patient friends were the glaciers reflecting him.

It's summer now. Timmy is sad.