Wind chill cuts the face into a thousand bloody tears, insignificant when taken one at a time, perhaps fatal all together.
It can hurt a shadow, like as one can hope to bleed, it can be much more than what it looks like even though sometimes I do not care about.
How fragile souls waiting to see it crumble to run towards his own end, unable to really do something, a word, nothing more, conscious of his uselessness, perhaps aware that in a time still to be, will resonate as a souvenir or maybe a carrier of misfortune.
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