Haggis on the Rocks, 3 x 4 feet, 27 January 2008, pastel on Arches Cover paper
It's about the cold I could not shake free of, no matter the warmth by or in which I placed myself. Every molecule was that of ice and inescapable though I enveloped myself in layers of wool blankets. I was like the inner organs of a sheep, like haggis yet unbutchered, but the feeling of being spilled over the wintry rocks did not depart from me. I could only accept that despite thick enshroudment warm blood did not pulsate throughout me, and while the layers may have shielded against the biting air I could not expunge the frost within. And I did not wish to be exposed, butchered, and cooked, for I deemed such to be too high a price for warmth, when ultimately cooked meet must be eaten and once more would I be enshrouded, like haggis yet undigested.