Thin Ice

I walked the frozen streets of my little sleepy flyover city tonight. The arctic air strained hard at my chest. Each breath seemed filled with piercing little icicles of crisp uncertainty stabbing at exposed, tender flesh. A familiar ache coursed through veins pumping more whiskey than blood. But the night was brittlely cold and the gentle kiss of a familiar anesthetic promised me a temporary warmth. And I had to steal the significance of that moment. The streets were empty, save for the cast off traces of winter lingering hard in rapidly solidifying mountains of frozen inhibition piled by the roadside. A siren screeched somewhere in the night. The clarity of the air carrying the sound far longer than should be reasonable for such a late …

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