[The walls are made of ice, right now.] Or at least thats what it feels like. The pain is not like a stab but a quiet defacite, the vaccuum sound of life without you.
You would expect that over time pain's well rooted foundation would falter, while cool ice crackled its way to make room. But when this was so, loss tooks its tendrils and rooted them into the deep sleeping ice.
It seethed into everything, evenly dispersed itself among the frozen pretties, so that every aspect of every single thing was held under the pressure.
At the beginning, the water had given its all to become ice. Pushing its efforts toward becoming solid and silent. But in doing so the water, now solid ice, froze to hold the dreadful roots.
I a tearless berg can only advice you of once thing in my position, never plant your trees in Antartica, no matter how deep the ice may seem.