Cold does not radiate though. But something can be cold enough that that is seems like cold is radiating from it. Then you know, it's been outside way too long.
And it's not like you should care where it comes from. Everybody knows the path. A long trail of broken and abandoned equipment, mud where tears mixed with dirt along the way. Some blood. And paint. Yes paint. All those days a new color was tried, hoping it would be a different day and a new color could change everything in that day. You can see paint chips left on the trail as it flaked off, but each stop in the trail gives evidence that the coat of paint sloughed off, as if it lost interest and just stayed there. And then more empty cans, a new color.
Dreams written to the winds, aimlessly blowing around. They don't come back and rumors of it's passing only by those who remember the deeds and not the significance of who did them.
And you have to ask them and wait for them to remember.
Yet this thing didn't stop, it never stops, ever.
Greetings.