Had Death been roaming our city that night in search of a casual victim?
MoreDeath as a figment, life as tiny details
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Call it my own version of faith.
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Poem: “27 voice messages”
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27 calls, a week or a day too late to be heard.
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Short story: “The snow shroud”
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He was like an old Indian or Egyptian king collecting a snow crown on his head. His head resting on his sofa pillow I stole from his room.
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