
In the snows, the green coneman holds court with a white coneman, live and true, not some undead or construct of snow, what shall this coneman have to say for himself?

White Coneman: “Between a rock and a hard place, which would you choose?”
A cruel fellow.

Green Coneman: “The hard place, a rock could be a rock after all”
The weight of experience of being bullied by rocks.

White Coneman: “What is a hard place even anyway?”
Green Coneman: “Somewhere without snow?”
White Coneman: “Chilling”
Indeed.