The Click
The slow horse turned against the night against the stone wall where the layers lay like mud and the signal wires ran over the air but the air was too thick to move The single thrill of a church at night was all it took to push the stranger along the long walk to the wall to the mud to the pain that cannot be scraped away The mound grew and the drops ran into rivers turned over like leaves on a winter street where the fires are all there is but the warmth is never strong enough At last we turned against the winning against the wight against the turmoil against the rain and the door closed and the click of that latch echoed forever
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