Cold snap

The high today will be fifteen degrees in my part of suburban Philadelphia. At night, low single digits. 

A faucet on the wall of the train station I use.

It's the kind of weather I want when I'm dying, but not the kind I want when I'm finding out I'm dying, which is what I've been doing the past two-and-a-half weeks. 
What season is the best one to die? Maybe I'd find comfort if I were dying in the spring. Life goes on and all that. 
I hope I won't die in the summer, with sticky heat and loud insects all night. Autumn might be best for me, especially late autumn, with its noticeably shortening days.
Not that we can choose these things.
Yesterday I went to a cardio thoracic surgeon to talk about the node in my lung, which he can remove, but more of them are likely to follow. They're chondrosarcoma in nature and surgery is the only treatment—chemo and radiation do nothing. If they grow in the wrong part of my lung, I'll be dead in a year.
The second photo is of the view outside an examining room in the surgeon's office yesterday, January 4, 2018. If you know anything about the musical "Annie," you know one of its more popular songs is "The Sun'll Come Out Tomorrow." It was an interesting thing to see from an oncologist's office.
It was cold in the city yesterday and many of the walks hadn't been shoveled. Schools were closed, most offices. I had three appointments scheduled but only one wasn't rescheduled. The trains ran on no timetable. Everyone just waited for one and got on it when it arrived and hoped for the best.

The Walnut St. Theatre, in Philadelphia, Pennsylvania.