108 - Falling, White, Like Death

Those white… flakes, they fall down. On this winter night, this cold, cold winter night, the White drifts gently down to blanket me. Each inhalation of it burns my insides worse, cuts me like icy glass.

And he looks down. It looks down, white too. No face, though I know it’s saying ‘I tried to warn you.’

--Written by Anthony Botelho.

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