In the dark, mostly, Lewis paces in Persephone's room.
First, I mean, cold. That one is the most obvious, and what does it mean? Moving slowly. Being alone. Stale pizza. Death, of course, death, and dying, and also purity - that is to say of course freedom from impurity. Did you know they put menthol in Listerine to make your mouth feel that sort of icy feeling? Cold is clean, that is an easy one. Second, what? Light? This has always been sort of counterintuitive for me because the days are shorter but just generally everything is brighter, the way the sun reflects off the snow and the roads turn that dirty white with the ground-in salt. I want that to be about knowledge so badly, you know, illumination and stuff. I want that to be about precision. Winter is a time to cut so, so carefully. To think before you speak. Dryness. Winter is about sucking the moisture out of your skin and exposing you for what you are. Winter is about cracked fingers and raw palms, winter is a time to drop discs, because the bottom line here is that winter isn't on your side. Summer, summer will be your friend. Summer you could have a drink with, but winter is something to be fought, with hats and gloves and balaclavas. You'll never win, I mean, but it is a matter of just lasting, of letting it run its course, I'm sorry. God, I have never been much good with symbols, but seasons might be my favorite of all and what, I'm sorry, I'm sorry.
Persephone is working on her translations (she is always working on her translations when he is there), and so she flips to a new page - clean and white and fresh - and writes at the top and on the left and then holds it up for him to see: It is winter, and I am always cold.