Frosted

Transmitter wrote this at around evening time:

I could hear the water running inside of him.

He was from Florida. He wasn’t prepared to move north. He never wore socks and didn’t know how to dress. He was always cold and sick. Shivering in his Brit-pop v-neck shirt and slip-on shoes, he talked about Europe.

He filled his body with kabbalistic tattoos, numbers that named everything and found god’s name in long division. He liked to read motorcycle schematics.

His hair was frosted. A remnant from the shock of the cold.

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