I am at minus eight

Have nothing to report. Steadily freezing to death. Children missing in hibernation. Hunted them down with spears. Dragged them outdoors for brisk walk to post office. On return, had legs snap off with brittle freeze.

No one venturing outside to shop. Starving. Have cooked and eaten all contents of house including a laminator machine and an Epson Perfection 4870 Photo Scanner.

Now wrapping self in curtains and dishcloths; the only fabric not already wrapped about toes, fingers, and nose.

Children gone back into hiding.

Will write mournful poetry.

I hate snow.
I hate ice.
I hate icy snow
and all snowy ice.
Not nice.

When I am dead, set me on fire and scatter me somewhere warm.