Where will I go? To the church. To these modern churches with their doors locked overnight. I will wander from hour to hour, church to church. I will not be moving to stay warm and alive; I will wander for the bells.

In this kind of cold the Earth itself struggles to move about its molecules. Nothing feels speed, not light nor sound, though they push valiantly through the crystal air.

Last night, I was at a church. I stood just to hear the bells ring.

Over a night in time frozen to nothing by distance from the sun, a person without a home can die in this cold. Where would I go?

Last night, I was at a church. I counted the degrees as they fell.

Chruch bells and clock towers, the poor man's only true music, delivered on a schedule for free. I will wander from chime to chime, time to time, hour to hour.

Somewhere, the sun will rise, and maybe then I will be warm again. In the meantime -- in the cold, mean time -- I will wander.

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