Maybe what cold is, is the timewe measure the love we have always had, secretly,for our own bones, the hard knife-edged lovefor the warm river of the I, beyond all else; maybethat is what it means the beautyof the blue shark cruising toward the tumbling seals.In the season of snow,in the immeasurable cold,we grow cruel…
Finnish Findings
Dining with Dostoevsky 