All the forward thinking is mired in the past these days.

I sleep with the balcony door open. The chill clenches my feet, their dirty bottoms, the extra thick layers of skin. Tendrils of wind brush the corners of my elbow, work their way up to tease my face. Cold is so primordial.
Hunter-gatherers laid out on the forest floor, bedding in pine needles and mulch, or animal skins, or tents—I don’t know. Or maybe it was the times I went camping, and at night there was nothing between me and the dead of space save for paper thin layers of sky: troposphere, stratosphere, mesosphere.
I am recalled to the lolling tongue of the laughing wolf in his winter coat. The dull heatless throb of a granite cliff’s heart. The snap of ice crystals and frozen autumn morning dew, tread underfoot. Wild things that scorn us in their insentience.
And I am curled up on my white linen mattress cover, while an open balcony door whispers to me of forgotten heritage.

Wonderment, we say, because awe is filled with a question; no certainties will come of it, and therein is despair.