in a snowy forest and I'm playing with a fox.
It bites my wrist but there is only a dull ache.
I feel that it wants to say sorry but can't. I die.
Another Frenchman pushes through the crowd to join him. He's an events
organiser who I'd met earlier, and he's holding a large box wrapped in a bin
bag. They're the fireworks he'd smuggled in from France the night before.
They're Industrial Grade, whatever that means for fireworks.
I know that if I try to make this entry any more than it is I will ruin it.
