Whiteout

It was hard to pinpoint the exact day his words first clotted into one congealed mess of noise, like radio static. There was a time at the fag-end of July while insects buzzed fat across the weed-shattered concrete when she’d thought she could still identify some individual sounds, the ow in what might have been If that stupid mongrel cat of yours don’t stop yowling I’ll pull its chicken-shit head off; a hard ck that was probably a subset of I know you overcooked that fucking fill-ay steak to fuck with me, you stupid fucking whore. By the time...

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