It’s about 61’F in here. I wish the new heater hadn’t been defective. The meter reader was here yesterday, so in a few days I’ll know what my energy bill is. It might be over $300. These two heaters run constantly. The cold overnight made it hard to sleep. The clouds outside are tinged pastel rose, and even look cold. The December sky is a lighter blue than the summer and fall azure. Not winter yet officially, but it will be. Aesop knows where the heat is and spreads himself next to it. I remember a Jack London description of the Yukon cold: like something conscious that deliberately sought to freeze the life out of every life form. Paranoid, maybe, but he’d experienced the places. Twenty-four above zero here is as bad as I want to feel. My furnace heat bit the dust a year ago. I know I lack the funds to have it fixed. I can survive with space heaters. The temps are forecast to rise within a day or two. The molten sun, big fireball, clears the tree line. Lemon color. It, too, looks cold. The landscape is like something on Mars, faded and colorless. The only difference is these habitations and trees. Is the sun a “blond assassin?” It looks like an old 1950s painting, an illustration for science or science fiction. It finally presents as circular over the housetops. “It is posed, what in nature merely grows.” The sun doesn’t “present” itself to my eye. What is active about perception is me. Aesop wants his promised breakfast now. It will be an interesting day.