You can feel it pressing in, pushing from every corner. It's a subcutaneous pressure, a motionless wind: there is no escape nor protection. Energy pulsating through every nerve, an oppressive heat surrounds you. There can be no respite, no succor to combat it. Outside it is more intense, more vivid; inside it is a gray undertone to form dissonance to every note. Heat has no counter, allows no recourse. It is the antidote to drive and vigor allowing a torpid soul to continue in apathy. Every move invites a worsening of the exterior condition: pumping out further heat and discomfort.
The cold forces motion: it is a barren field in which one with drive may plow and plant. A vast, empty expanse to be filled with motion, combat is purpose and purpose is success. A desire for cold is a desire to live, desire for heat is a wish for unending stillness, a cry for the ending of the race. It is ambition that will meet the cold, and timidity that calls for heat. The soul of progress will be North, and death only can be found in the tropics: waiting in the lushness of the plenty.