If? The Word Is When.

The Heart Lies And The Head Plays Tricks On Us, But The Eyes See True. Look With Your Eyes. Hear With Your Ears. Taste With Your Mouth. Smell With Your Nose. Feel With Your Skin. Then Comes The Thinking, Afterward, And In A Way Knowing The Truth.

Remember Old Nan's Stories, Bran. Remember The Way She Told Them, The Sound Of Her Voice. So Long As You Do That, Part Of Her Will Always Be Alive In You.

She Would Die As She Had Lived, With An Axe In Her Hand And A Laugh Upon Her Lips.

You Kill Men For The Wrongs They Have Done, Not The Wrongs That They May Do Someday.

But The Real Enemy Is The Cold. It Steals Up On You Quieter Than Will, And At First You Shiver And Your Teeth Chatter And You Stamp Your Feet And Dream Of Mulled Wine And Nice Hot Fires. It Burns, It Does. Nothing Burns Like The Cold. But Only For A While. Then It Gets Inside You And Starts To Fill You Up, And After A While You Don't Have The Strength To Fight It. It's Easier Just To Sit Down Ot Go To Sleep. They Say You Don't Feel Any Pain Toward The End. First You Go Weak And Drowsy, And Everything Starts To Fade, And Then It's Like Sinking Into A Sea Of Warm Milk. Peaceful, Like.