Winter belgian waffles as the snow comes down in hampers. And I pluck craisins off dried dead bushes and grab acorns from the nests of rats. I am off the grid and here I am making waffles out of dirt and grass and snow and twigs. I am so sorry I left the city now.
Willis plays racketball in a snowstorm. Everything reeks of the color blue. I am on speaking terms with the humid thumder. Trouble. Big Steve plays the bongos. Deadly ice. Minty frosting.
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