In a sense, you think maybe things ought to not be this way, but be some other way instead. A different sea with different colors or a different room or a different sky where the electricity is different and everything flows in some other shape you feel more familiar with. Maybe instead of wolves and the rain and the sky it would be sunlight and cotton and sweet drinks with rum in them. But maybe that’s why you’re thinking of it, it’s already done, and you know it, because you knew it and so you know it and you can’t forget.
What does it matter?
What else keeps your spirit alive when everything else settles down? Strong drinks and good food and warm company are pressure on a vacuum, and it always catches up with you eventually.
In this moment there is only the comfort of winter: That with the stars you will witness, and persist, and remember. One Eternal Winter with no home to guide you and only the compass to drive you on.