Setting the Small Fires on a Ship Stuck in Ice

— Christopher Citro & Dustin Nightingale

One amber blink into the night sky. I am here. I am here. I am on unsteady ground. The room is beginning to sway. I may never be warm again and if not that is okay. I don’t think I’ve ever been a snowman and if I could write an anti-suicide PSA it would begin Whose woods these are. You didn’t see the movie? We were us but better than us. One experienced spontaneous amputation of the small toes. One was handed an entire yellow cake. The tarantula had been brushed off moments before bringing it into the room. There were plenty of things for it to eat before it went to sleep. For example, I had a memory that I was desperately either trying to remember or forget, I don’t know which. I had an answering machine one hundred years ago. It told me who my friends were. It hung on the kitchen wall and lived on the warmth of my hand, the attention I smeared across it standing alone at 2 a.m. waiting for the light to do something. Anything.

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