It started snowing, real heavy, and Joel was starting to feel like a kid again, or like how Sigmund Freud must’ve felt when he got a new kilo of cocaine.

The pile of skeletons which were Joel’s friends and family was disappearing in the blizzard.

For all Joel knew, snow was skeleton dust and someone in a helicopter was grinding bones against a cheese grater, and all the Antarctic was maybe the whole human population sprinkled across the continent, or cigarette ashes, except maybe that one person grinding all those bones, smoking cigarettes.

There’s flakes of Dave Chappelle, and there’s George Carlin flakes, like his own cereal, and there’s Eric Beeny’s dust floating down from out of the sky.

And Joel’s friends’ and family’s skeletons got covered with skeletons like shreds of a white comforter with some evidence of cigarette burns like pee holes in the snow, and then Joel couldn’t see them anymore.

Maybe in another small novel all their faces will appear on milk cartons, and a small lactose intolerant girl with dreadlocks will rescue them from the clutches of Big Tobacco.

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