From “Drift” by William Preston
I remember the day it really started. The city as empty as a stage sprawled before us. One o'clock drifted through, the snow outside stacked on top of cars. I stepped outside and slipped back inside and said, look at this. We stepped outside as a silent symphony of reds and blues against the white canvas of the city vanished. Twisted in the wind, shaking and covered, it felt like nothing was quite real that day.
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