After the crash we float like ghosts

vaulted ceilingAfter the crash, we float like ghosts, moving about the old main street unnoticed and silently marveling at the high pitched roofs and tall windows of these old houses, taking in the glow of warm light of the interiors. The long incandescent puddles projecting out through the panes onto the thick blanket of silencing snow create such contrast, we half expect them to melt it. But they don’t.

We don’t feel cold but assume we must be, knowing that we can’t cross the thresholds of these sanctuaries against the night.

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