He hasn't felt the warmth of another's breath in too long. Many nights are spent with only his air painting clouds beneath his lips. Bathed in the cold dark, the cabin flinches by every ask of the wind, it's floorboards creek under pressuring steps, and yet his body only shivers from it's isolation. Untentative ripples, pure in their commitment to the fall of sensibility and control; never to have those windows repaned again. See now how the guests of wind tear at the neighboring cloth on his body. Colder colder, and ever more lonesome. Here he sits with no hammer, no nail, lamenting and moaning, expecting a ship in the woods to come and set sail with the morning.