Sun
Jun
20
The Face of White Noise
It was a Friday at the peak of spring. Frank Shaw had passed the more pleasant part of the afternoon at his desk. Evening had not fully arrived but a chill had combined with the air and entered his room. His stationary activities had brought a stilldeath to his toes. This in turn had led to thoughts of a passionless blood stifling his veins like the stagnant waters that fill the swamps of hell. His mind rushed to the life pulsating at his wrists and behind his knees, throbbing like the march of ten thousand armies. His eyes were slowly clouding as a faintness began to envelope his body. He could feel his shoes pushing tight on the tops of his feet, squashing veins against hardwhite bones.
