Chester

Skanking indecorously to the harsh rhythm for warmth, we were huddled there loosely in tough pride. The wind, the pale white monster leers, turns, leers, and turns, and then quickly pounces. We were dressed in ratty, tattered sneakers, brown and black and years’ faded jackets. A collective exultation of horror. The cold wind sinks its vicious teeth in our flesh, bites our fingertips. And spring won’t come too soon.

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