I held my hand and stub near to the fire in hopeful search of warmth, yet none was found. Had I started this fire? Let's say that I had, let's say a irrepressible rage swarmed through me when the undead I had so rancorously shoved to its death stood up again and, ever more feebly than before, began to shuffle-skiff away. I wouldn't have it, I wouldn't—had it started snowing? How... nostalgic. Were I alive living instead of dead living then I assume a lump would have welted in my throat while I stood, unabashedly fighting back tears at the sight of those beautiful ice pixies dancing their Zapatistas dance in revolt against warmth.
A unfeeling, undead creature vainly warming its hands upon a fire lit from a body of a husk of an existence amidst rebellious snowflakes... believable? Morbid? Melodramatic? Darvey flickered through my mind. Where had he gotten in his story? Let me check.
The fire died down and, once again, darkness wrapped me within its embrace.