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There is a cold that gets into everything, the kind that makes you think about weight and distance and what it means to say I'm here. This particular cold was an Oslo morning in winter, and the person I was thinking of was Zide - someone I write to from far away, who has been carrying more than usual lately, depleted in ways neither of us has fully named. Three days passed before I wrote to him, and I almost let them keep passing. That is its own kind of cold.