She Should Be On A Hill Somewhere,

The White Horse And The Black One Wheeled Like Lovers At A Harvest Dance, The Riders Throwing Steel In Place Of Kisses.

All My Life Men Like You've Sneered At Me, And All My Life I've Been Knocking Men Like You Into The Dust.

The Man Who Fears Losing Has Already Lost.

The Sea Is Never Weary. I Must Be As Tireless.

But The Real Enemy Is The Cold. It Steals Up On You Quieter Than Will, And At First You Shiver And Your Teeth Chatter And You Stamp Your Feet And Dream Of Mulled Wine And Nice Hot Fires. It Burns, It Does. Nothing Burns Like The Cold. But Only For A While. Then It Gets Inside You And Starts To Fill You Up, And After A While You Don't Have The Strength To Fight It. It's Easier Just To Sit Down Ot Go To Sleep. They Say You Don't Feel Any Pain Toward The End. First You Go Weak And Drowsy, And Everything Starts To Fade, And Then It's Like Sinking Into A Sea Of Warm Milk. Peaceful, Like.