I’d start by sketching it on a napkin, just to get that wild shape in my head—maybe a twisted, snow‑covered origami of a fox or a spiral that catches the light like a prism. Then I’d grab whatever I can find: old insulation panels for the walls, a chunk of wood for the base, and a huge tarp for the roof that’s cut into a swooping curve. I’d layer the insulation on the walls so the cold doesn’t sneak in, but I’d leave a gap for a big window made from clear plastic or glass so I can see the white world outside. Next, I’d paint the outside with something bright—maybe a neon blue or a gradient that looks like a sunrise over the snow. Add some LED strips hidden in the seams to make it glow at night. If I can find a piece of reclaimed metal or a broken lamp, I’ll mount it on the roof as a tiny sculpture that reflects light. The final touch? A handmade sign in my own blocky handwriting that says “Cold Zone Art” to let everyone know I built this for a reason, not just shelter. It’s brutal, it’s imperfect, but it screams, “I did this!”