The air is cold -
isn't it delicious? This
morning with the
savage city groping my
eyeballs, I blink and in that blindness shiver
the trees just under my
skin. Is it fear or anticipation of
the end that sets them trembling?
Men drive their stone stakes deep
but the earth beneath my frozen feet keeps
the beat of a defiant tune like an uroboros tape reel that
repeats:
The cold is delicious - isn't it air?
These are the moments I am me.
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