On a whim…

Chaotic, esoteric, marginally coherent, stuff about life.

The cold was bitter. . .

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Choking cold…

Strangling cold…

Assaulted by the cold…

Cracking, scratchy, cold…

Crossing the cast iron lawn he held his frosted mitten to his face covering his nose half expecting to find that it had already fallen off.

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Written by David Wilkerson

2 December 2007 at 4:45 pm

Posted in cold

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