The Second of Little Johnny-panni’s Last Thoughts
the seed.
the germ.
The storm continues. It is me. It is not me. I’m not a part of him. I am no longer in that body. In that mind. Good riddance.
In the darkness before him sky and water meet, mesh. He feels them as one, feels the cold. dark, wet blanket enwrapping… I know what he feels. He feels the wrapping, the swaddling, over him like a monk's hood, a shroud, completely encapsulating him, offering no protection but the numbing cold.
His fists clench. The wind hitting my face brings snow—the fourth storm of the season. Sparse yet driven. His ears, nose, lips, forehead sting. My eyes tear. Cold. Damn cold. So damn cold!
Look at him—standing, staring at the water, his mind rigid, his body tense, his legs trembling. Wind howls across
