It's cold outside, but that's alright with him. He likes the cold. It's the heat he doesn't like - the pounding sun reminds him of pure alcohol. It not good straight - you need something to cut it, get rid of the acrid bite of something so unpure. You need orange juice, bitters, a lemon. Except here it's the wind you need, or the cold, something that makes the awful glare and the painful heat fade away beneath the extingent factors.
That's another thing he likes. Big words are fun, for him. He knows he cant use them - it takes too much effort to search and find the appropriate one, and then apply it without making an ass out of himself. But hes watched that scene in the second Matrix a few times - the architect, the colonel sanders lookalike. He talks like a machine - cold, distant, precise.
The cold isn't always great, though. When it gets to be 20 outside, with a biting wind and the smell of frost - such a sterile environment isn't right. 60, windy, cloudy - that's the weather of life, of contemplation, of a struggle for meaning in an oversimplified life. And then there's heat. 80 degrees is hell, and humidity between 35 and 99 percent is a bastard. But when their combined. A 20 degree day, a sweater, and then a friend - another sweater and another body. The shared warmth, the closeness. Its perfection.
Perfection comes to an end, of course. She moves away, or he does, and they go to their respective homes. Maybe she has an abusive family, maybe she has loving parents. Maybe he has a perfect family, maybe he has a horrible one. It's not the same, though - nobody loves their family all the time. Nobody loves their soulmate all the time. Everybody changes, and everybody stays the same.
So it's cold outside, and that alright with him. He has his music, and his memories. That's all he needs - one to comfort his body, to keep it moving and rocking, feeling the beat, the pulse of life. The other for his mind, playing back the memories of times past, the good and the bad, the cold and the hot. The passion and the numbness. The love and the hate. The prevailing indifference - necessary for a nihilistic view, never represented in his memories. In his life, everything's pointless, and there is no purpose. In his emories, everything is beautiful, and nothing hurts.
He has a new mix today. He downloaded some of it illegally, like the millions of others Americans who do it. It has him on it, or what other people think, or what he feels. Its all mixed up - unsurprisingly. He found a song for the people who called him goth, and another one for the people who called him punk, and a third for the ones who say hes emo. Then theres one for Alaskan memories, and another for those in pensylvania. And for what people have told him - there's "paint it black" right next to "Jeremy." And then there's "mad world" and "master of puppets". And then there's "epiphany," which nobody ever said to him, and he only said to himself. He's not in there, but that's about as close as the fuckers on this world are going to get.