I’m 37°C hot ice
Friederike Wiessner
Life rushing through my aorta, pumping oxygen from my lungs to the smallest and least appreciated cells, the life that comes out of my mouth like mist on an icy January night or when walking along a
barren field at sunset, 4 pm, orange light dipping the stubble on the ground into a glaze of transparent fire, the trees like intricate rivers leading into the sky, with clouds, mutely rolling waves, finally extinguished by the ball of golden light floating within. Cold air rushing from my chest into my
fingertips, my heat in the aether, a passionate and wet exchange of aggregate state, life, and stillness. I now grow roots that do not hold me fast; I suddenly know I can carry and plant them anywhere
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