>He washes himself with a small buckets and handfuls of freezing water. A bar heater bleats out useless air on the shelf near his head. He shivers somehow deeper into his skin, crouches to ball himself up into something more like a hibernating creature, something more adaptable to helplessly futile conditions. He years to put himself to sleep, to see out this bitter winter.

Like a slingshot his mind shoots back over the Southern Ocean, back to gladly grassed mountains. Back to Patagonian air. He unveils this memory—a treasure he’s been hoarding, holding out for the unbearable. The knowledge that he’ll never make it back. The water gets so hold it goes boiling hot. Out his tiny window is white. Nothing but white.


Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )


Connecting to %s