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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