By Liam Woodworth-Cook

 It is New Year’s Eve. They say a new decade, and what I see is pounds and pounds of snow. So wet and grey the world was until this blind sighted punch: A Sunday night fall over Jagermeister lubrication. 

My Monday a doze. I am caving to become a ghost. If I could slip out I would leave you only this and all the locked fragments. Finally, like eating the ghost stories I read this fall, I am no longer eating. 

The weight of the intangible, the unseen is far heavier than this winter snow. I want to reach into blankets and go, sleep into the dust of the street. Become less than the mouse; our silent house ghost of a guest. Though like snow, like muck and miles, it too shall fade. I am not hollow; My cackles will bring me back, which is to say that this bridge will crack. And the descent into the icy water will become warm, for on the other-side of numb there is something, yes? Faith is only in this, a changing of coats.