What, in the last resort, is there to be said for January and February? They are the months designed to show people who don’t drink what a hangover is like. It is so cold. In winter the temperature falls well below the legal minimum in my flat. You see, I have no central heating here. I live alone with my gas fire and we are happy this way. None of us go out when unattended. Has the weather been privatised? Even wearing two pairs of arctic quality gloves my finger joints remain iced shut. Even with a polar hat my skull is cold as a cannonball and - worse still - my hair style is squashed. Ice is forming on the upper slopes of Sebastian. Fuck it - I‘ll be alright. Has a gentleman who knew he was well dressed ever caught a cold? I suppose I should think of people less fortunate than myself. The best that can be said for the cold is that it exterminates the old. It is January. Another fucking year. Look at me. I am a useless dandy. I am almost bankrupt. I will either commit suicide or die at the age of 45 because I will have said all there is to say … will you marry me? The Lord of Abominations. God of Dispersal and Emptiness.