Where The Pixilated Doctors Moan
January 8th 2010 Walking.
My face is whipped by sharp icicles falling fast from the black sky. Tiny, perfect formations of frozen water particles, each and every one of them unique, supposedly. I can't tell, they all sting the same as they crash into my cold cheeks. I'm wondering why I'm doing this to myself.
“Sure you want to go for a walk in this?” ask Ingemar as I exit the car.
“Oh, but the warmth of our
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