his hands are firmly wedged inside pockets unwilling to risk exposure to this frost-coated morning if he tripped or slipped stumbled fell even then he would not rely on their numbed support he could not trust that they would do what was necessary if called upon deep in the sherpa-lined abyss of his coat his fingers remain protected in gloves clenched and wriggling with all hopes resting on a return of warmth of bloodflow of feeling before he gets home before central heating and chill-blains turn his frozen tips into scalding rods when there is no use but to desperately and ironically wish that he could not feel anything at all