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Description
John remembers his birth as if it were yesterday (which, coincidentally, it was).
He may not remember the time when he was still nothing but water, but he remembers waking up stone cold, in a dark room, stuck in between two layers and a set of toes.

He does not remember his mum, nor does he remember his dad, but he was certain they wouldn't have been able to tell him of great past adventures or quests of romance. After all, what more could an ice-cube do but dissolve above zero?
John names himself Watson, because he quite fancies the sound of two names, and tries to count the minutes he's alive. After forty, he gives up, for he isn't planning on making a log of lying down and doing nothing and recording time is tedious.
After God knows how long, the drawer opens and John Watson, ice-cube extraordinaire is joined by fuzzy meat that would be fingers if they'd only have nails and if he would have any breath, he'd sigh.
John Watson was just about to give up any resemblance of thought he was able to have in his poor, frozen conscience when the door opens once again and a pale hand pulls the drawer forward.
He is lifted by long, thin and especially bony fingers and John thinks that this is a rather heavenly way to die.
John Watson, after fortysomething minutes, finally fills his purpose and dissolves in a mug of hydrochloric acid.

Description
John remembers his birth as if it were yesterday (which, coincidentally, it was).
He may not remember the time when he was still nothing but water, but he remembers waking up stone cold, in a dark room, stuck in between two layers and a set of toes.

He does not remember his mum, nor does he remember his dad, but he was certain they wouldn't have been able to tell him of great past adventures or quests of romance. After all, what more could an ice-cube do but dissolve above zero?
John names himself Watson, because he quite fancies the sound of two names, and tries to count the minutes he's alive. After forty, he gives up, for he isn't planning on making a log of lying down and doing nothing and recording time is tedious.
After God knows how long, the drawer opens and John Watson, ice-cube extraordinaire is joined by fuzzy meat that would be fingers if they'd only have nails and if he would have any breath, he'd sigh.
John Watson was just about to give up any resemblance of thought he was able to have in his poor, frozen conscience when the door opens once again and a pale hand pulls the drawer forward.
He is lifted by long, thin and especially bony fingers and John thinks that this is a rather heavenly way to die.
John Watson, after fortysomething minutes, finally fills his purpose and dissolves in a mug of hydrochloric acid.