October 29th, 2004

Mask

Jack

Out of white dust and frozen water, nipping at fingers, breaking off toes. King of the darker world, the longer midnight, rising from oceans of smothering frost, killing the young, the lonely, the old. He cannot die, can only sleep between fresh and fall till he wakes when the earth tilts its face. In the outer banks, where fiction and hard truth slip, like lovers, inside and around each other, he lives in solid, spiky forms, icicles breaking skin for blood, best served cold.
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