A man walks into a snowstorm. The bartender asks, “What’ll it be?” “Kerosene on the rocks, please. Make it a double. Where there is fire, there is hope. And where there is intestinal burning and ventilating orifices, there is smoke.”
A snowstorm walks into a man. The man can’t shake the feeling of bitter Arctic wind and Judas Iscariot sin. His numb limbs have betrayed him; played oblivious bystander to circulation. His will to survive has dwindled to a sporadic flicker in the stomach of his soul.
A man’s search party walks into canyons and caverns calling out the man’s name; mocking echoes roar from the darkness. A polar bear walks into a bar. A bar walks into a polar bear. Everyone drinks to a freshly frozen man who has silently walked into a lukewarm Heaven.