Frostnip, then possibly chillblains, *then* frostbite (then possibly gangrene).

Semi-deep thoughts as I coddle my weary bones on a day off.  Snow shoveling with proper technique can save you from injury, because it spreads all that soreness around equally.

I'm wired with both eidetic and state-dependent memory, but I also merciless dump things out of cache, purging and archiving so deep it might as well be gone.  So memories are sometimes like time-capsules I'd forgotten were buried until I tour a neglected patch of earth or spelunker a mental basement for an unrelated reason.  With the bone-chilling weather lately, I'm walking through a sea of childhood nostalgia as well.  It seems to me the cars should be bigger and more square than they are, like a part of my brain is traveling in time because I'm integrating sense memories I haven't accessed in a very long while.

The crunch of tires on snow, compressing it under tonnage into an undulating layer of ice, (the metal rattle of lunchboxes on an iced driveway in an improvised bocci-style game), the wrench of icicles catching just enough sunlight to detach and shatter on the porch, (the echoed waveforms of each of my parents stomping their boots clean on the landing between side door and basement stairs, an aural fingerprint of only that person in only that place).  Sound takes on a brittleness and contrast in a cold dry atmosphere, like stripped branches inked against colorless sky, and the behaviour of sound changes again when it begins to snow.

I hadn't forgotten these things after all.  I just hadn't remembered that I'd remembered.

I need to brew more tea, and perhaps knit myself a hat.