It is sunny. It is cold. It is cloudy. Last night the wind would not stop whistling out there in the dark. It howled. It screamed. It knocked down trees through power lines out by the bridge. Last night it rained like it’s been threatening to since May and I can’t even remember when May was anymore. We were sitting on the porch drinking. Sweat had dried to our bodies three times over. The sky seemed to split open with light and loud the rains came down. The river’s been acting up. This is the news with the weather. Hope you are well.
Sasha Fletcher's novella WHEN ALL OUR DAYS ARE NUMBERED MARCHING BANDS WILL FILL THE STREETS AND WE WILL NOT HEAR THEM BECAUSE WE WILL BE UPSTAIRS IN THE CLOUDS is out now from ml press. He too lives in Brooklyn.
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