Ice Age | Nate Maxson

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A new continent conjured from the ice melting. It’s quiet except for the occasional cracking of the shelves. Straight through, like thunder from the dirt: backwards. The chasms spread out. A rock hitting the windshield at a high speed: we’ll need new maps for the wind alone. All a fantasy, all a dream sequence in a black and white film. I walk into the ice. In the other mathematical sequences I vanish (and won’t shut up about it) but this time I reappear: with ice in my beard and the names of new oceans blue and close.

My watch unwound gathers frost on its numbers and hands.

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