Time to truly stop shivering in my socks, or just a hiatus till but a little later into the year? Such questions buzz around in my conscious mind momentarily, then are soon firmly pushed back into the shadows where their true import deserves.
When the future of life, the universe, everything, seems to constantly hang in the balance, the weather, and my personal comfort, seems quite peripheral. ‘Tis no major predicament to pile another wood log onto the fire, to add an additional insulating layer to my burgeoning mass, to manage one more piping hot sausage sandwich to warm and appease my ever-exhorting belly.
More important to masticate over matters beyond my paygrade, problems so deep and perplexing to try the finest intellects society can muster, the veritable brains trust of cognoscente. My opinions are quite immaterial, uninformed at minimum, biased at maximum, but I am human, and must speculate with my other fellows, a hubbub of immateriality and pointless conjecture. Better to think something foolish than noight at all.