It’s raining outside; the dampness seeps into my apartment. I have been sitting for two hours. The heat from my computer soothes the tips of my frozen fingers as they dance over the keyboard. This is the inactivity of writing, when the only blood flowing is the blood in your fingers as they incessantly type and the blood flow to your brain as it incessantly creates. The rest of my body is idle, engaged in holding me upright, not exerting enough energy required to pump the blood through my body and produce warmth. My solutions: I keep a thick sweater on the back of my chair and a hot cup of tea beside me. This prevents me from having to step away in the midst of something powerful and compelling, interrupting my flow of thought, if only to save my frozen limbs from a perpetual icy state.