The color is grey.
It is so cold. Last night I thought that my toes had dropped off. The sky is so low. I thought that I could touch it. I touched the snow on the ground. I had to collect a bucketful. Before the War the snow was white, but now it is a dirty grey. Everything is a dirty grey. The War has sucked all the color out of life. The wind sings a sorrowful tune. It sings loudest at night. It’s not really singing. It is a painful ululation. I try to tell Captain H. but he slaps me around the head and tells me to refill the bucket with snow. The other day they killed all the horses. I asked Captain H. the reason behind the act. "So the cowards can not use them to escape on," he said. We cheered. Hurdled together Captain H. described the cold as a lover. We were perplexed. "Go and stack those missiles," ordered Captain H.. We stack the missiles.
