A Different Kind of Dread

The light at times is so bright i am unable to see, temporarily blind, until the next corner leads back to dull grey nothing. Penetrated by short sharp bursts.

Window pains clean before being crystallised by sunrise; before the black comes and the earth turns seven A. M. black.

The late September brings leather mittens and shell toes, a year since the mountains rocked high in Sikkim, splitting around us. My body hurts just thinking about it.

Pound shops and immature breath replace landslides and the almighty Himalaya. A different kind of dread.


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