What world is this? Nothing is familiar. Where is my comforting embrace of heat and sand and dry air? Was I dead? Was hell the opposite of everything ever described? Blinding white, icy demon fingers clawing, a dead hand gripping my lungs, particles of pale sky quickly turning to water on my skin. The stiffness of my fingers slowly extending to my wrists and from my toes up to my ankles, I must be dead. My plane has gone down and I am currently entering rigor mortis. They will find me like one of those cavemen found high up on a mountain. Perfectly preserved like a warning to those who dare leave the warmth and the sun and the caress of the dry air. I could no longer feel my extremities. The pathetic gloves, boots, and coat, were worth less than nothing. I once thought nights where I could just barely see my breath condensing in the air were miserable. I have never known true misery. The wind blew a mournful gust that felt like my soul was no longer in the warmth of my body and the very bones of my frame crackled with cold. I wished and prayed to all the gods to be home. But the snow continues to fall and I am still miserable.