There’s a certain purity to the death that creeps over you as the ice swallows the last of your air. It’s clean, final, clear. One gasp, shudder of the fingers toward freedom, and it’s done, finished. Your brain sluggishly perceives a change of state, but even this is only its last act. Life freezes, floats away on silent angel wings that carry the cold self along to oblivion.
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Labels: Barry Antwerpa