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It was the type of cold that felt like someone squeezing your face. 

She now understood the appeal of a balaclava.

Leaving the warmth of the office, 

She marched to the train station.

Her feet were warm,

In her socks and shoes,

Her hands were buried in her coat pockets,

Even her ears were protected,

Her hair and her headphones shielding them from the mean weather.

Only her face felt the truth,

Exposed to the elements as it was.

Every member of her body had a role,

That’s what the Good Book said,

And apparently her face was the vanguard,

First and foremost,

And unprotected.

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