Whatever the reason for this blinding whiteness, we’ll play anyway. We’ll cover the better parts of our fingers and find the courage to pluck and strum. We’ll watch the air leave our lungs in smokey bundles, dissolving and retreating into nothingness. We’ll move a little slower, tightened strings from the cold. We’ll dress in Sunday’s best, camel coats and smokey grey parkas and we will defeat you.
words by Nada Alic