"Cold was master. Heat was servant."

let's go through it all yet again. Thursday falls right on you, what a stabbing surprise. in your head you recall each of the sentences you heard, waiting 'till some time round you'll finally get it and understand what makes people behave like carefully calculated pigs that you let in your place and feed with warmth. this mantra puts you to sleep and when you wake up it's already the day after, then one or two more and you drag yourself out of it and watch the winter sun spots move on the calendar squares, you drift further and further from that Thursday, which will soon become just one of countless days, a moment when something happened, but you can't remember exactly what it was. you wait for the anger to come, a healthy sign of recovery. eventually, a big fat chunk of time accumulates, separating you from the events, making you unsure of what it was all about. so sit, wait for the water to drip, for the sea to fill up again.

when I say what I think of people and interpersonal relations, I'm asked, whether it's really something I believe in. so, what, am I supposed to lower my standards? oh, no, you just wait, search for poeple of the same beliefs. how much pitifulness in their words. for each utterance of theirs, one bottle of wine and one pack of cigarettes for my part. that's my dialogue with the world. because winter and I, well, we really hate each other.

The day I was born.
It was a cold snowy winter New York. Cold was master. Heat was servant. Cold landlorded it in every tenement block, pushing the heat into smaller and smaller corners, throwing the heat out onto the streets where it disappeared in freezes of steam.
J. Winterson, Gut Symmetries