When I managed to go to sleep, my dreams were
disturbed. My usual mash of Arctic ice at first, then
rooms of something like the Winter Palace, but almost see-through,
barely holding together, with ill-fitting doors and hoarfrost on the
doorjambs. I saw myself in one of these rooms. Then
Alix came to visit me, and sat down on the
erect me, and started moving so sweetly, but then complained
I was so abrasively cold, just like a stick of
frozen salmon. Then a slow easing out of sleep. A
sound assurance that my bad dreams were just that — dreams.
Paraphrases from the novel The Age of Ice by J. M. Sidorova.