Actually, you can just move it to Comics & Books if you want. I don't mind.
Now that I think about it, I have to rewrite everything except for a couple paragraphs. It won't have as much punch or mystery to it, otherwise.
Here's a revised version. Ye of weaker minds should find this more pleasant to read.
The cold stings. It hurts me especially. I'm not talking about fear or anything like that. I'm talking about the cold, the temperature, the weather. Living in Chicago, I've experienced some fairly ferocious wind. Quite a bit, actually. I can deal with it. But in the cold of winter, the wind will cut through you with the speed of a blade. The cold's anger, while fierce, is beat only by its cunning. After the sharp has long since set in and faded, a sense of non-feeling slowly falls over you until the only feeling you can recognize is fatigue. Soon, the urge to fight is ripped away from you and you are at peace. You belong to the winter. She's a terrible mistress, I assure you.