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57 pages, ebook
First published December 15, 2010
Winter came, as harsh as grief. The earth grew icy teeth; the ground froze. And snow fell away endlessly, whispering rapturously of autumn's death.
The boy stood in his bedroom, the cold licking his wrists and ankles. He shuddered. His bed stood only a few tantalizing feet away. The window was even closer.
But he couldn't move. Not yet.
The house is always cold. It didn't use to be, but then we used to have a son to warm it.
It's been cold since I killed him.
A man walks into a psychiatrist’s office and says, “Doctor, I’m depressed. I’m sad all the time; there’s no hope; life doesn’t seem worth living.” The doctor says, “Go to the theater tonight. There’s a famous clown, Pagliacci, performing, and if you watch him, you won’t be depressed.” The man looks up and says, “But doctor, I am Pagliacci.”