＃６２

Here I am – spattered over puncture rock, on scrabbled holds and busted dreams. A heart that won’t co-operate, lungs I’ve given no reason to; don’t blame them. Little icicles from midday meltwater now glittering in the albedo. Downhill, rainbow cotton, block-printed, smudged into the ice by a La Sportiva stampede such that half the prayers came off. Neon kernmantle, too, in streaks and drabs and squiggles. We must look like silly string. Well, I’ll be here. Be seeing you.