Snow Monkey
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Timothy P. Waldron

There is a silent-unmoving-pile of bodies that fills our living room. They lay where they have fallen, still wearing the clothes that they had on last night. I am sure they have had a good night out, and I am glad for them. I donít feel much like sleeping, besides thereís no room. I walk out onto the beach. The sun is on the rise but still only hovering above the water, already it is heating up the day. Salt air smells nice and cool sand feels good when I squish it in between my toes. Thatís about all I can claim to know about what goes on. But sometime, I imagine other places, sometimes I wonder what its like out in the desert. I think about the heat and the moments that make up your life. I think about how many times you wonder if you will die each day, how many people you have killed. But I can only think about that for a short time before I have to push those thoughts out of my mind.