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The haze had hit by midnight, clouded by a crooked departure with no real closure, rocking back and forth, twisted in sweat-soaked cotton. The snow came that night, waited it out, made sure not even a trace of your shadow lingered. Streets froze, fever set in. The hot and the cold. The cold and the hot. Endless, luminous days culminated in filthy, iced roads, salted down to a brown mush. Look outside, she said.

You just gotta love a place that uses bike handlebars as door-handles! It should come as no surprise that I got. Thanks to the fumes, I was unconscious in seconds. Ronan, the hard way.

I think I see England. Photo Journal, woop woop.

We serve drinks while you serve volleyballs with that kickass underhand serve you learned in 7th grade. Well, shuck you then. Come stuff your face with a burger instead. This guy could be you.