Last Winter
Are we tormented? Does Larry Fessenden dream, fevered and
shaking, of the blood that, like milk through your veins, flows and pools
around cracked boots? Are the sad, rare flakes of wet snow the last that we
will see? As the coastline vanishes into the angry maw of crupescian ocean, now
too warm – and carrying storms that would seem normal on some uninhabitable hellworld in another galaxy – we think about the money we made, the rents that we
sought, the souls that we abandoned.
But hey, we had a good time!
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