It is glass, except at this point. Stillness but at a points where organic organizations chaotically splay into realms of mineral discipline. Yes, frigidity is mineral. A taste that is pain. The stickiness is a cold ache that runs deep in the throat and the tongue flames up needing every resource.
Hands are stiff claws.
Pink and white delta. Run dry in blurred fissures. I could forget that I generate heat. Imagine French rocket scientists inhabit your town. They speak only Romany and reek of fortified reds and cheap cigarillos.