The earth is an ice-baked, ochre ruin.
You notice the colour of the earth when you’re closer to it. In fact, you notice many things when you’re older… like breathing. You still do plenty of it, but is it enough to call it a life?
She has all she needs to get through the winter. Food, fuel and enough gin, albeit now a drink of diminishing returns, to sink a battleship.
A little something for the soul would be nice, but the soul-shop packed up and left town a while back.
Five weeks before the earth tilts.
Just hanging in there.
Sorry! that’s me in November. Hopefully normal service will be resumed soon. Thanks to Rochelle for being a rock in the Friday Fictioneer’s sea.