Evans: Snow skin. My skin is made of snow, practically. Look how it glitters.
Pierre: I once dreamt that my fingers were splinters.
Evans: Let’s get out of this cold in a hurry.
Pierre: I think we’re not allowed back in.
Evans: We’ll force ourselves in. We have the spirit for it yet.
Pierre: You do? No, I think I’m done.
Evans: You think there’s nothing left for us?
Pierre: I think we’ve been bested.
Evans: I like the way it makes things look solid, more quality, or more inaccessible, like a mountain—an opaque, uncut diamond.
Pierre: I think it’s time we stopped losing our minds, like you were saying, let’s go.
Evans: We’ve become redundant. I would suffer a thousand years out here before I spent one day…there.
Pierre: Let’s talk about what’s before us. The white diamond mountain…
Thanks for checking out my poem.
Did I tell you I wrote a novel? You can also donate some of your hard-earned dollars down below—that’s money to me, for free!
—Gabriel Muoio
$1.00
