It was easier to walk, but colder too. Before long, the cold was whipping through her, was turning her poor ears red and her face dry and her lips cracked. With every step, the poet shivered a little more, and she wished the crows had thought to mention that a nice wool cloak might be handy when visiting a mathematician. She wished the mathematician had the sense to live someplace warmer. She started running, running to keep the blood pumping through her. Then she tired, and slowed to a walk again. She missed the layer of fat that had been eaten away on the endless climb. She wondered if the mathematician were fat, were a great big ball of blubber, to live up on this mountaintop and not suffer. She was beginning to believe any truths he held must be thin, and cold, and not at all nourishing. She wondered, and she walked, and sometimes, she ran. It couldn't be much further.
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